dulce suenos

to hear her say
m'love, m'dear-
sweet.
this is what it is
to love her
to be her lover.

52 pick up

They built their lives
out of playing cards
with a delicate hand
and a steady eye.
They were careful
not to jostle the others-
disturb the stillness
of all that came before.
He was tall.
She was pretty.
And they built their lives
out of playing cards.

journey

we walked in
the direction we faced
away from the sun and
the water
and the trees.
we walked to where
the land was dry
and undeveloped and nothing
could offer us
shelter.
we walked and
carried what we could
in our arms
on our backs
across our chests.
our legs pushed - pressed
forced us on
begged us to stop
and we walked
until it was all familiar again
then we lay down
to rest.

Liar

to lose myself
in your words
would be absolute
suicide.

contrition

I was young then.
young and primarily stupid-
stupid enough to fall for that line you whispered in my ear
as you sank deeper into your pillow
with that almost-sincere look of admiration
that made me feel-
something-
whatever that feeling was
that made me believe I'd swallowed wet cotton.
But I only stared at the ceiling
and repeated it in my head-
what I thought was beautiful
what I thought was true.
"your soul tastes like butterscotch pudding."
No, it doesn't.
Not anymore.

blue

made of glass
made from sand
their smooth and shiny forms
picked up the sun
and threw blue fragments of light
across the room
on the bed
and the walls
from the bureau
where they stood
and watched her everyday routine.
they watched her tie her shoes
and brush her hair
style it, just so
and wrap herself in pink.
they watched and remembered her-
my grandmother's birds.

outside the cafe

they stood, their hands pressed into their pockets,
one in love with the unaffected other-
discussing, debating,
as their words turned to steam.
then they shivered
and turned,
and hurried off,
neither stopping to look again-
out of love or concern.
and they walked farther on
in search of the other.

respite

in the chair that was my mother's
I can see the ocean.
I can hear the waves crash on the sand
and the gulls as they dive.
I can smell the salt-
taste it as it breezes past my face.
sitting here-
in the chair that was my mother's
my body sinking into the worn patches
making deeper the dents on the arms
curled up in it,
pushing into the cushions that used to push back.
I can see all of it from here.
I can see all of it.
Leaning into my knees
with the blanket drawn tight around my waist
I can see everything.
and I find that I am strangely addicted to vanilla roobois tea

Miller Street

Hill
steep
the hidden house
cement steps
dead plants-
un-watered, because they die
fresh sauce
cedar chests
lilac perfume
stale smoke
Persian rugs
floral velvet upholstered sofas
vinyl chairs
the china cabinet
green counter tops
cream and gold linoleum tile
Christmas-caroling electric lights
identical gifts, in pink and blue
my sisters' laughter from the other room
the quiet,
the security,
the boredom as the adults made conversation.
I was six
then sixteen,
and then we stopped going.

etched

I wrote the names of my grandparents on a piece of paper
I wore like a medal of honor
when I marched in line
with the rest of us.

I write the names of my grandparents
over and over again
lest I forget them-
on pieces of paper-
tucked away into pockets,
slipped between pages of books-
safe.

I will write the names of my grandparents.
I will remember their names.