Poetry

Walking through Ithaca

Night as cold as in a glass bottle

And the exhilirant unsteady sick revelry of breathing

In the thing that shouldn’t be cracking in the bonfire all the

fumes.

I smelled, briskly, an apple pie or cinnamon tendrils of a warm family antithesis when I was walking on the sidewalk, alone, past

I burn like a ball of lead through the leaf-crusted air thinking about you while I walk home, and nobody suspects a thing

Nobody except the people in my textbooks who are too good at deduction

My father’s turn for Sundayschool unearthed
In tender minds the same way as a newborn
Full-breath, how fear could molt a ripened fruit
for squeezing like a heart to taint to taste to rule
And juice, mingled with the old pages splayed
My father’s gospel was beating drums.
To scare the devil with hot fruit fire and
His phobias, with stone bodies flexed
And I did, I smelled citrus in the cemetery.
Strung like beads of light amidst the graves
We did not wake the rocks with laughter
They’d think our feet were thunder.

New Year

I molded a clay and left it a chunk in the amazonian sun. 

Like in my lips, fissures formed a root canal or network of bones

connecting all the capillaries of the new skin to the shed with a 

strange sympathy, I crack open a thick fruit, glistening a

breathtaking idea, with a jolted heartbeat, cleansing of my

old skin and sins so that I am birthed through this fruit and the dirt

at once and burst but not quite, something close to burst.

 

To Nobody

You are beyond intrigue, luminescent when you fill a room.
I adore the flip of your feathery hair, the chestnut glow, your essence
I am filled with light and softness
Your laugh is the very meaning of joy.
I appreciate your nose. Your jaw, your shape, the way you light up and crinkle under your own smile, shyly, boldly, blushing.

I am here I am back in NYC again. 

I woke this day to the release of bus exhaust

and toddler cries, amazed that I slept, batted

a beam of squeezed city sun from my eye and sat up.

It’s time I was a reliable conductor of 

these cascading passengers named each 

different types of anxieties one by one

by one thousand if the train leaves the 

station too early or uptown rather 

than down leaving the cavity 

of my wordless mouth in its place

before I can step onto the platform

the brainpan vacated like-

Until you’ve slept on river rocks alone

Or worn a dying shroud of ants like lace

You’ve loosed your cold water skin from the bone

Clutched your self closed curled down, chanting grace

To the ancestors in your wounds who drink

The screams of nations for their strength, wipe the

Red from your mouth like a honeybee, gorged

On the ember of the salt and burn.

But a flick,

And their drums clamoring up,

Ashes to ancestry

Descendants to dust.