9.24.25

Every night a golden star falls down upon the city of blessings so that it may re-earn its name.

In the city of blessings, a bride takes a groom. Two halves of the moon, rising for just tonight. They reach together, hands outstretched, towards the unceasing chain of ancestors that came before them. In the dark of the parking lot, my aunt tells me she still wants her children to believe in love. Her husband gives her a salary each month, better than most. 

Prayers, then. Three sticks of incense, held with the left hand, for birth. Thirteen turns around a candlestick, when it comes time to walk back the way we came. 

In the dark, I still think of you. In front of the river that gave me life, I say your name in a language not my own.