Country Morning, 2018
“Enjoy the fresh air,” he said
after lifting the window above the bed
ceremoniously.
A trail of mountain breath
snaked its way around the room
like toothpaste on a morning tongue.
Peppermint tickled the backs of our lungs
as our minds filled with something new.
We pulled the covers around us
bracing for a chill
and then slept like the unborn.
The nothing sound of stars aging,
mountains posturing,
and seeds sowing
secured a peace
that was just barely broken by a drop of dew
giving birth on the window…
Followed by the new born cry of a crow —
the youth of a country morning,
like a gift we’d never outgrow.
Ready to Fall
Where the leaves once were, is light now
waking us up only a few moments before we're meant to.
We stir, isolated tangos with the sheets,
evening out the night's flattening on our cheeks.
This way, now that.
Finally, braiding our limbs together
before facing the kettle.
Awake, but not ready.
Bare, but not naked.
We sip towards the day, sharing a meek exchange.
This way, now that.
Finally, resting our foreheads on each other,
as the blush from last night fades into the day.
Awake, but not ready.
Bare, but not naked.
Where the leaves once were, is light now.
Mid-March
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
The Weather
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 ice cream 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).