Mid-March, 2017

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

than you.

And when you wake, with mid-March in the corners of your eyes, 

I wait, stalemate, for a sign of an opening gate.

 

Windowsill, 2017

Winter afternoons,
like vignettes of a movie
we’ve seen but
not discussed.

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
bones.

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.

 

Wanderlove

Bodies like homes,

lived-in, warm like wombs,

welcoming.

Packing peanuts, masking tape,

broken glasses, cracking plates

we move

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,

waning. 

Crinkled notes, rusting lockets,

paling petals, jinxed jackets,

we keep.

 

 

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:

Angels Trumpets 

Dolls Eyes 

Oleander

My figure is bringing pleasure

to someone rewriting its sum,

to body forth the lesser edition.

I stepped out for a moment

to visit 

Lily of the Valley 

and dress up in

Queen Anne’s lace

(it’s all that suits me now).