Poetry

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.

Trying is digging up under old skin

Try writing about pain.
Never rests on the skin it is
Within inside, the depths, always,
the down the browbeaten city by city
Tar-black for miles open wounded rubble
Un-glowed organs sticking under bridges
Reverse emanation, the dusty heat and exhaust
A filthy wilted wrist like a child’s and
Is brown. Is brown like a sinking ship
The splintered wood like incense
Brown and thusly dim
Scrub it raw til it—
So many things are like,
Something that doesn’t
Exist in language.

Each photograph mother stark with specific eyes.
Ghostly bright in search, tearing fear
Fearing find or a fresh fruit-crisp birth next
Formula tubes too formulated to rot second chances,
Third chance, a headdress of food stamps,
Pa’lante.

You my ever looming father sleeveless
battered body leant to a small cat.
You emanated into her
your stored, storm, clearwater countenance boiling
Out into not saying everything ever and you cupped,
Vowing your rough palms,
Your hands around a final marigold when
You shielded it
From sun.

The thinking sound of a wooden spoon in the pot
And the weak light in the living room we
All sat on the purple rug our raw bare legs
We traders and negotiators huddled, handling
Grimy playing cards like runes each others’
Secret-Secreted-Sacred wishes for each other
Standed on trees with purpose
And speaking ourselves bigger and
Beautiful-er with importance
In our network’d vines of a beautiful mind
Worth, necessary, serious, our lives depended,
Listen, I’m serious. My younger brother
Delivered a monologue about galaxies.
Respectfully I injected magic into it with
Two precious careful words settled then
decided them we, lulled
By nodding heads
We all headed out after supper we
Messy-headed dirty-handed brimming
Went away
For who knows a century
Or the length of a new sun a
Whole bible from a
Different universe’s world.