Bones half-grown, she rises
from a ship’s dark hold.
Gives herself up
to a hard-handed miner,
and grows thin from miscarriage,
fat from pregnancy.
Sings songs in Portuguese
as she hurries from cabin to sluice box
on small calloused feet.
I remember the old woman,
not the girl.
A widow in black,
with thick stockings, heavy shoes.
Lived in the corner
of my grandmother’s kitchen
gluing broken dishes.
Always moving and praying.
Boiled her own egg
till the day she died.
The face of Maria Neves
floats in my dreams.
She was my great grandmother.
I wear her eyes,
speak in her voice.
She is waving her hands,
reshaping the air
to tell me in broken English,
that “life is no sugar.”