With the morning apparent on only your side of the bed,
I am the shady side of a Brooklyn street —
snug brownstones, like teeth after braces.
From the chilly pavement, and with obvious frown lines,
I enjoy a brighter view
And when you wake, with mid-March in the corners of your eyes,
I wait, stalemate, for a sign of an opening gate.
like vignettes of a movie
we’ve seen but
From the blanched windowsill,
we see the paste of fallen leaves
concealed by a cool cotton veil.
Fresh snow hides the things
we’d rather not see.
And what I’d rather not show you;
like the way my heart explodes for you,
detonating, leaving red capillaries
beneath my blizzard skin.
And how lucky I am to hide
under sweaters and poor posture —
because it's permitted in these temperatures.
Even as the day recedes
and the room dulls,
I am bright under your gaze.
I want to melt into marrow
and live inside of your winter-chilled
Ensuring that come spring,
I will still be with you.
Sprouting through your pores,
colorful and warm.
The Weather, 2016
I wear the scarf
your temper weaves
I watch you leave
turn into brown
I rake up piles
your ashes on the ground
*Excerpts from Wanderlove: Lust, Loss & Moving Costs 2015. Full manuscript available upon request.
1720 Rodney Street, Los Angeles, CA
Our mouths couldn’t find the words,
so we drew them on the walls.
In black and blue on stucco,
we mapped out our losses
and let them sit like braille.
Later we’d run our fingers
over each other’s topography.
In the heavy hush
we could find alternate routes
to get to familiar places,
but we couldn’t stay long.
Bodies like homes,
lived-in, warm like wombs,
Packing peanuts, masking tape,
broken glasses, cracking plates
through our twenties
like a band of gypsies,
taking trinkets, leaving
notches on heartposts.
A need to drive by past lives
to check up on porch lights and
paint jobs and lost loves.
The choice to look away
or not notice
white crosses replacing welcome mats.
Lovers like strangers,
fading, gone like present,
Crinkled notes, rusting lockets,
paling petals, jinxed jackets,
730 Lorimer Street, Brooklyn, NY
Incarcerated by indolence,
cracking teeth chewing on keys.
It’s a joke —
to live next to the park,
to rot on one side of the window
while on the other side
puppies lick icecream faces and
lovers acquire grass stains.
I’m waiting for the punch line.
I made it so beautiful inside
but the breeze doesn’t pass the screen
and I’m sucking on recycled air.
I’ve grown tired of waiting
for the other side
to call my name.
It’s no fun up here in my pretty bed,
recumbent in socks
and yellow wallpaper chains.
Chateau de Fleur, Los Angeles, CA
My body is my shape, my tenement,
my constitution, my vessel,
my figure, my dwelling.
But I won’t dwell on definitions
for, not all nouns stay nouns.
Sometimes nouns turn into verbs
and no longer mean the same thing.
I’m thinking white, just white:
My figure is bringing pleasure
to someone rewriting its sum,
to body forth the lesser edition.
I stepped out for a moment
Lily of the Valley
and dress up in
Queen Anne’s lace
(it’s all that suits me now).