I hang the window inside out like a shirt drying in a breeze and the arms that are missing come to me Yes, it's a song, one I don't quite comprehend although I do understand the laundry. White ash and rain water, a method my aunt taught me, but I'll never know how she learned it in Brooklyn. Her mind has gone to seed, blown by a stroke, and that dandelion puff called memory has flown far from her eyes. Some things remain. Procedures. Methods. If you burn a fire all day, feeding it snapped branches and newspapers-- the faces pressed against the print fading into flames-you end up with a barrel of white ash. If you take that same barrel and fill it with rain, let it sit for a day, you will have water that can bring brightness to anything. If you take that water, and in it soak your husband's shirts, he'll pause at dawn when he puts one on, its softness like a haunting afterthought. And if he works all day in the selva, he'll divine his way home in shirtsleeves aglow with torchlight.