My Swallows
after Ann Gray
I talk to the swallows
as they dip and dive
wonder if they return because of me.
I tell them the cactuses are dying,
that I’m the wild boar rooting around for grubs,
that I don’t sleep much these days.
I tell them the stars out here are pinpricks on paper,
a homemade camera, boxed in darkness where light filters through.
Patience, I tell them, is the key.
I whisper to them in Spanish, golondrina, golondrina.
They build their nest in my eaves, in my heart.
I tell them the almond blossom came in February,
that in the village they dress their children in white one month of the year,
that the black snakes have started appearing again.
The swallows sing to me of African reed beds, arrow their wings.
I tell them the day they left, the Sierra cried snow,
that I’ve been counting the days like coins,
waiting for riches to come.