By Tracy K. Smith, closing lines to “Vaya, Camarón,” in Duende: Poems (Graywolf Press, 2007)
It used to be, you’d open your mouth
and the weather changed.
You’d open your mouth and the sky’d spill that dry,
missing-someone kind of rain,
no matter the season.
And it hurt,
like a guitar hurts under the right hands.
Like a good strong spell.
Now you’re all song.
Body gone to memory.
And guess what?