By Victoria Brown

There is a blinding white stucco house

With a burning terracotta roof

Growing out the side of a desert mountain

At 4708 East Saguaro Place

 

There, you can hear her singing from almost any room

With lofted cheekbones that catch the light and

An accent you can’t quite place

Skin like foamed milk moonlight or iridescent pearl

Sharp eyebrows, elegant shoulders cut like mine

Pitch black hair that falls into perfect spirals

Emerging from the deli like it was her boudoir

In layers of cream and false eyelashes

 

On a warm summer night

She found her mother with her face pressed into the floor

Her eyes wide like two storming oceans

Her father’s headlights traced the living room

I know this day like I know how to wait for sunrise

Like I know the dust that settles into the cracks of my floor

The men I love will always leave me

 

She moved like the wind carried her on the back of an aria

Swaying gently in a floral kaftan in the kitchen

Tracing notes of Tosca through the hot desert air

Her voice overflowing, matzah frying on the stove top

 

Her and I, we share arms that wrap your sadness in presence

That beam you into a better place