Moon Flower

Her bloom does not

stretch to touch the sun -

her trumpet petals

open to midnight sky -

call of island coqui;

in life, she lived

in shadows of convention

behind pots of beans

and flowered oilcloths

dulled by soap and scrub.

Equatorial days split

between dark - perhaps,

forgotten ambition;

and light - likely,

routine crumbs house kept;

at night, salsa beats

away from the kitchen;

the moon flower watches

orchids run up palm trees -

dancing with the dark -

her spirit rises from day’s dust.