She grabs your arm at the airport and you spin
to find new wrinkles on the mouth that once hummed
Bizet in grad school. You're drawing a blank, except

to remember her parents live on the Bay of Biscay
where the hake laze, unaware they will be merluza
on a menu. There's a statue-man there

on Las Ramblas with a sword and silver cheeks
who is incidentally the Duke of Alba, and looks like
your grandfather. You know you can't go on

addressing his bottled handful of ashes
and bone chips, but you do. You expect a loose sack
on the head of the hanged, a double bag on the girl

in the joke. Naming, un-naming: paleontologists
unearth a hipbone and call it Bambiraptor, forensic men
run their hands through the Balkan mud and come up

with nothing. Even the sun -- saddled with divinity,
copied whole into the center of wheels, and the conquered nameless
offer their hearts. Who's to say the dead

are indifferent. Maybe Kaddish is the pile of letters that rise
on the tail of that jet she unboarded. You may not remember
you loved her once, but you'll never forget her name

means sorrow in Spanish and the way she wrote
those notes to you,  left-handed, each letter hidden
with the penning of the next.