Divine Alphabet

by Octavio Quintanilla

All the questions

the fireflies syntax

in the dark glow

kindly like the match

my lover strikes

to light a cigarette.

I hold her hand

as if by this I measure 

all the love I am

still willing to give 

to the world.

Not once her breath

opened to say, “I am

done,” and held me

like an ember against

her chest in spite

of injury, the burn.

“I want to touch 

what you’re missing,”

she’d say, “give it a name.” 

Soon she’d learn no name

existed for this hunger, 

no knife to cut it in half.

Years later, her invisible

hand still lights the letter

“i” in the word happiness

like a candle,

and by this light, I see

the last strands of hair 

she left in the sink.