Emerald green you are
And your scent is that of
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 —
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,
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
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?
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.
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
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,
this place with the table,
the books, the first page of my play,
and all the works created, all this was his.