Red eyed morning

The sun isn't even up yet
but the train is running,
shaking the walls
and the bed
and the earth beneath its
tracks.
The bells replace the birds
once the roads start to frost over
and the green glow
emanating from the trolley cars
precedes the yellow winter daylight.
Red eyes stare into the bathroom
mirror as the body leads itself out
the front door.

The dreamcatcher in the window
is old and tattered.
The powder blue feathers are duller
Than when they were first attached.
It looks as if it's holding
onto a lot if dreams.
It has more likely been
forgotten by a long-gone dreamer,
whose dreams no longer need
protecting.

Sometimes on cloudy days,
you can look up into the
sky, through the haze and
see the shape of the noon sun.

Don't try on blue days.
Without the clouds,
the sun is free to graze on the whole sky
and its shape is undetectable.

If you look too long,
eventually you'll be staring at stars
and they're a whole different song.

Going Home

When we're grown ups,
bedtime will be togethertime.

No more long goodnights
in frozen air,
with numbing lips
and tousled hair.

Your bed and my bed
will be the same location
where our dreams will entwine
the way our legs will.

Our clothes will inevitably mix
in the generations-old dresser
whose top drawer I'll
struggle to reach.

Can you feel it?
We're grown-ups, almost.
Not quite.

Not like the song.

Your heart is a room

where my toes are never cold
where the furniture is always comfortable
where the lighting is just right.

Keep me there, with a love
that lasts the seasons,
and gives me all the reasons
to stay for a long, long while.

You happen upon me,
the best I've been in years.

Eyes aglow, reflecting the setting summer sun,
and with one foot out the door.

We're growing apart,
but are still eerily similar.

That connection we have will
live as we do. Until we don't.

But then -

And then?

Seasonal

the sky is that
hazy shade of summer grey
that always tells you
to expect a shower later on.
It's vaguely similar
to the Boston winter mornings
whose afternoons turn
the whole world white.

Well, maybe not your world,
but certainly mine.

indecision.

the souls of my feet
are the color of the dust
that coats the hot asphalt.

there's a noisy street
both in front and behind
but there's no way to know
which way is correct.

the sun is still blazing,
teasing with its tenacity.

forward looks nice. don't think twice.

newlife.

I'm in your garden, with
dirt under my fingernails
and grass stained knees.

My daisies are blooming,
mingling with your marigolds
the way your soul mingles with mine.

We're at opposite ends
but distance is only temporary
in this little patch of earth.

We'll meet in the middle,
in the company of the vibrant petals,
and leave traces of ourselves

among the flowers.

Easy as One Two Three.

Let's get a kite.
Diamond-shaped,
striped red green and blue,
with a long white string.

It's spring, after all.

We can fly it in the park,
near the carousel
under the budding spring trees,
you and me, little bay bee.

You'll see.
You'll feel so free.

i am no elm

a house you grew up in
does not a home make.

trees have roots, not people.

origin

momma, mother, madre, ama,
you are but theoretical.

no matter where I look,
in my peripheral vision,
your silhouette will linger.
I turn to see you, but
too slow are my reflexes.
you're gone just as instantly
as I felt you there.

the weight of your absence
lays across my shoulders
and before I'm conscious of it,
the curvature in my spine
is like the s you taught me to draw
in my name.

Things are so different now
than they were back then.
Darker hair and tired eyes
paint the picture of today
but your image will never change:
silent, intimidating, constant.

Abstract as you may be
I will never be free of you.
Never.

continuity.

lonely
in a crowded room.

silly
little girls who

feel
solitary-ly surrounded

grow
to be 20-somethings who

feel
just the same.

1

Lady, your blues song
brings me down. Why must you sing
it so near to my ear?

Abuya

Your large hand,
balled up in a tight fist,
speeds toward my chest.
Blink and you'll miss it.

Straight through skin
muscle and soft tissue
to plunder my insides
and find the heart.

Tenderly retreat, prize in hand.
Only for the tenderness to disappear
and your strong fingers to crush
what you've stolen.

Still standing, I can only stare
into eyes that look like mine.
Knees buckle and meet carpet,
as daddy leaves the room, satisfied.

My poor heart.

Sunday Morning

the blinds are rolled down,
and the blanket's in bunches
where our feet intertwine
at the foot of the bed.

your drum of a heartbeat
taps on my shoulder blades
while you rest, pressed behind me
in a bed that's too small.

the silence is broken only
by unsteady breathing
and the sighs of contentment
that abscond from my lips as

the soft pads of your fingers
dance along my waistline
in patterns that
I can't quite follow.

"we should get up,"
you whisper in that
throaty, half-asleep voice
that's saved just for me.

I roll over, and bury my face
in the stubble of your chin,
closing my eyes and
freezing us in the amber of the moment.

Don't ask me why,
just let me lie here
in the quiet.

turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy,
all with a side of discomfort.
holidays, shmolidays.

my dear sparrow,
your nest has fallen

and the horizon
won't help you now.

Specter of You

a slight squint of your eyes,
and just a flick of the wrist,
and we're back to where we started.

they were right when they said
"things never change, little girl",
and I was silly to believe otherwise.

I see your face in my mirror
but something about the image
makes my stomach pirouette.

maybe it's not really you.
maybe it's just my mind's projection
of what you look like in my nightmares.

it seems too vivid to be anything but you,
but I should know better than to think
you'd be anywhere but your own world.

autumnal

the winds turn cold,
the leaves put on their fancy clothes,
and the sun gets lazy.

it dips below the horizon
before the party is over,
and that cold breeze chases us inside.

numb fingertips brush rosy cheeks
and walk away.