Both of my grandmother’s funerals

were well attended affairs. For the second,

I even watched videos of her casket

being prayed over by the neighbors

she had for more than 75 years;

the same neighbors

who watched her dust carpets on that old sky

blue, adobe balcony until she was 90. Who

joined her children’s children in street soccer

and arcadeTekken, as she yelled at

them about taking care around passing

cars. I prayed those days. I’m told to

pray on the day of

their memorials, pray they

don’t forget us now they’ve

come into the Kingdom. I feel I should

ask, though - What

do they pray for?

So I quietly quiz my therapist in my sanitized

studio,

how could I be worth them, how many

wire transfers will absolve

my birth certificate, or my

diasporic guilt;

And hope that my neighbors

don’t hear the soft splash

of unearned tears on second-hand

West Elm furniture. Our caskets

won’t be all that different, but I’d guess total

attendance will drop.