I don’t know why, but I dreamed about you
last night. You were bald then, like the last time
I saw you, and young. About nine. I didn’t
know what cancer was, and still don’t—really.
We sat, counting chongololos in the post-rain.
They wobbled on their hundred legs,
black-hunched and inching. It must have been March.
Everything dripped in the gentle aftermath.
You were my sister’s friend, so I don’t know
why I was even there. You asked if we still rationed water.
I told you the school built a small, stone-grey fountain in your memory—