August, 2017


Emerald green you are 


And your scent is that of 

Red velvet.

16 OCTOBER, 17


The sight of grey rabbits running across 

the paths, and through the green grass of a park, late 

this night as i biked home, have

conjured up an image — 

a memory 


that belongs to me as a child and anyways 

I was lying flat on the ground resting in the front yard 

of an uncle’s home. There, 

I learned that rabbits 

are always fucking. 


This report came to me through my uncle, who

sat, with his belly in his lap and whose extravagantly thick

eyebrows and kind wife made one feel forever 

welcome in their home, empty 

as it was 


except for the children but, the grass of his 

yard was also green, and the walls of his home were of naked

cement, like the walkways and the paths.

This uncle with his wife, 



and a perennially pregnant grey rabbit, 



was poor.

August 2, 2017

Today as I Was in the Library

I got distracted, or

I am guessing something caught me 

unawares while I was perfectly 

absorbed in whatever material 

I was reading. It happened when—

one of my two hands fell

on my chest and 

I sensed my heart beating, hard.


I slid my index, middle, and ring 

fingers inside my blouse, in 

between that space, just above 

my breasts, there

to feel the warmth of my skin. Then,

I laid the same hand, it was the left hand, 

on my left thigh that inadvertently

had been pressing against my right.

And my body remembered you, as

I remember you.


At once, a current of desire rushed 

to enter my mouth, I tasted it. 

It turned to water in my tongue filling 

the back and corners of my throat.

But I am porous, so it escaped—

somehow, and from my neck it moved 

swiftly to my back, from where it con-

tinued to travel to my breasts. 


I touched it there,

caressed it because it had been coming, 

gathering, about to burst as 

if from a lift hill when it stopped

at the tip of my nipples, and

down it moved when gravity took over 

passing through my belly and its 



To find the center of me that 

misses the center of you.


My hips clenched it, they squeezed

it, as they do. I did not want 

it to leave me, but gratefully

I am porous, so before it fell 

plump to the ground, it came

back and in it stayed.


October 23, 2017

Dear Ordinary,

You are the reason why she died of 

Laughter; her husband tickled her to death 

In an effort to rob her of her burden

And cure her of that complaining. 


But you are missed, too. Because there is 

Nothing as insouciantly beautiful and stubbornly

Ungrateful, as you, especially when you wear

That costume with that pattern.


I think of you, and I think more of 

An inventory of repetition, than of the denial of 

the pleasures of touch and sound. 

But come, come —


I’ll do your dishes again; and wash and fold 

your clothes again; and I’ll walk with you to work, too, 

and to the library — without you having to ask that I do 

these things, I’ll do these things with you.


Because you’ve robbed me of the option

(And cured me of that complaining.) 


And in the afternoon, as I sit quietly 

in that armchair, to look at the lake, will you 

reveal to me something of that image?


And what if in the evening, 

when wine makes me look softer and you serene, 

we resume our performance and dance? 

To Misericordia

Is that where all your things have gone — and

had they not left you in the company of flowers,

would you have complained? 


I offered little in the way of impressions after the alarm

rang randomly. But I was four, and it was said to me that you

were made ‘in His likeness’ 


And that statement left me completely nonplussed, and 



I think of the absurd intimacy of the drawings I made 

on the occasion because no one spoke to me about them; 

they thought it an unkind gesture to imagine He would 

want to pee from that cross. 


But these things seemed natural to me. 


And in your house things were transfigured, too — 

unowed, some of them began to look extraordinary.


And what of the clock, candlelight, and tablecloth — 

would the crystal drops like to remain? Tell me, 


I think they would, even if they have to say goodbye too,

eventually. Because these things shine, and things that shine

matter to you 


but ‘they are not good enough’ you said, and then I said: 


These things thought themselves relevant, and in a particular

order of things, they were. But they thought themselves being

so because they glittered, like your eyes: hazel and black.  


‘And what an absurd comparison!’ - And do you know that

glitter and gold have gone out of fashion, and that your

parrot no longer remembers himself? 


It would have seemed an exaggeration, had he spoken at your

burial — Roberto, like a ringmaster’s announcement, would

have sounded silly.  


‘And what about the cushions, can they be brought to me? 

They were made of pink satin.’ 

September 19, 2017

You Speak of Trust

Do you remember that dream I had?

In it, I had began to write a play about a boy 

a boy who thought himself having no talent but,


Who wished to teach himself— 

how to write poetry and prose.


You speak of trust while waiting for me

to tell you that which you think I am avoiding 

by telling you of my dream with the talentless boy.

But listen,

In it, there was a long wooden table 

with books on it, one of them was red and contained 

a struggle: the first page of my play, and all the other pages 


were pale.


The table and its books were inside a home

of unfamiliar settings, large rooms, intense white 

walls, large window panes, and light. There was a gallery in it


A gallery of artworks — some 

were mine, some of them were rotting. 

There was a leak in the ceiling. And there wasn't a you in it, 


my partner 


this place with the table, 

the books, the first page of my play,

and all the works created, all this was his.