Sunday, July 10, 2016

A Wish

Blue eyes, crystal clear flesh like her mother...
I don't know the spaces she will inhabit : stucco wooden utopias where she will host parties for 
the others. 
But I hope for an understanding of beyond primary colors.
A paintbrush poised to deny landscape and form: to dance across the sidewalk edge
to a city street full of deep brown. 

Saturday, July 2, 2016

Thief

You stole her eyes. 
An abduction of a connection 
That is my soul. 
I care for the eye-less. 
A timeline of: the rush of bath water and the drizzle of excrement, a smile and a wandering foot.
I button my uniform and disappear, appear in the day and the night: watching and waiting. 

Thursday, June 9, 2016

Surprise

Move in me, dear:
the different love beside my other part and below
the blessed one with thorns. 
You are an element not whole of me, but you still fill the secret spaces. 
Your skin's red shade is a mystery but also as close as 
my morning awakening. 
You have me at the green screens, waiting for the next flash of color.

Saturday, June 4, 2016

Growing

Wriggling across the landscape: both frozen and with sprawling vegetation:
Her skinny digits  begin their first exploration.
I want her to try it, to delight in it. 
But this wars with the 
tiny body curled on my rib cage.
She is from me: a beautiful mess pulled
from a broken body. 
I want her to be: the bird burrowed in its nest, a wax sculpture. Instead she is the plane's exhaust in a blue sky, the charging bull.

Saturday, May 21, 2016

The Truth

Flesh seeps through the floorboards of the house they paid for. 
They run the nine to five and pay with plastic for the comforts and consistency. 
But she still hears him at night, crying in his closet --- muffled sounds from the crush of the clothing around him.
He comes out of the wardrobe with a smile, but lines as deep as earthquake cracks in the ground 
tell the truth. 

Saturday, May 14, 2016

Holding On


The billboard sign strips down to the metal. 
All you can see are the letters on the thin paper 
in rhythm with the wind. 
It's ending is just a 
sigh and a spurt 
in the silent night 
The screen door shuts. 
The dishwasher hums. 
You tuck your housecoat around your tight chest 
and rub your eyes.
You could have missed it, 
but you didn't. 

Thursday, March 31, 2016

Unshaken

Sitting in the restaurant, Mama thinks of her first journey: the move from the darkness inside to the light of the earth:
Eyes that view the rosiness in cheeks, the patterns of the t-shirt...
Ears that hear the pitch of human banter, a clatter of a fork against a plate...
And it is all good.
As her warm body snuggles into her Mama's in the corner of a booth, Mama thinks of Jesus' hands covering the small frame.
She prays for this connection to the divine: for now and forever.
She places the child in the stroller and walks out of the restaurant door: the light gives way to the darkness that cannot be extinguished because of Mama's gray coat that smothers the dawn.