I dreamed mosquito,
monkey tail, and rock.
In my mouth, a cloud.
When you sleep,
I am a boy journeying with you.
The stars do not shine,
only plug patches
of darkness.
I dreamed a wall of mountains,
a low plain, a plateau.
Along the lower slopes, the rainfall
cleanses the goatskin,
drenches the buffalo.
I dreamed oils,
mud houses,
a triangular pocket.
Live this way and try
to feel.
Fire turns to ash
under moon
and banyan tree.
Your fine hairs whisper
of love as your head
rests in my lap.
Tag Archives: poetry
Paradox No. 7
In this there is a clue.
Watch. Watch. See how the bindweeds cling,
their blue trumpets
spiraled closed,
waiting for the daylight
of the next world. I pull the petals
from my mouth. I am I am I am. See. I am silent.
I am rattlesnake. I am still. The glass is emptied.
The vine groans its silence. There is light.
Shadow light. I am still. I dance
like burning glass.
I am rattlesnake. Two women fill me.
Two women
sharing a cut tongue.
Watch. Watch. See how the bindweeds cling,
their blue trumpets
spiraled closed,
waiting for the daylight
of the next world. I pull the petals
from my mouth. I am I am I am. See. I am silent.
I am rattlesnake. I am still. The glass is emptied.
The vine groans its silence. There is light.
Shadow light. I am still. I dance
like burning glass.
I am rattlesnake. Two women fill me.
Two women
sharing a cut tongue.
Housekeeping
She thought there would be space–an hour here, an hour there–someplace to put the things, the words, the blankets that belonged to her. She tries to greet the mornings with pleasant indifference, but still all that comes is the burning anger of slammed kitchen cabinets, broken light bulbs, and more and more maple oatmeal down the garbage disposal, all diluted among the milk, the thrown away mashed peas and carrots from the burning night before, the soured orange juice, and the grit of wasted coffee grounds. What a mess she makes.
When the cries come, something falls in her throat. It is her voice pushing its way closer to the center of her. Some words are rooted in love. Some words are stolen. Some words are trapped in her. At least this way she does not scream. She cannot. She is, as they all know, quiet. She does not lift herself from the floor. She cannot. The crumbs fester on the counter like all the specks of leftover ground beef that cover the stove like all the dead cockroaches under the dishwasher. The putty knife could not scrape them away. They are thick, and layer upon layer, immovable.
Forever Sun Salon Self Portrait
Two women in one and neither one ever whole. Your husband is your child. I know this. I think of your two hearts, your one eyebrow, the miscarriage of your marriage. There is blood on your skirt. I walk the winding staircase to the tanning salon. You are there in your Mexican headdress, so elaborate. I see you, dancing your joy with your wooden leg. Your skin is bathed in brown like the color mine becomes when we massage it with wet coffee grounds. What a mess we make. Goats are chewing the receptionist’s hair. At her desk, I stop, but you turn the corner. I see you, drawn to Diego’s belly. You think home is in that place, that man. Get away from him. Come with me. We will run from his painted men. Their hands are too large and they are too pleased with themselves. Later I will be sunburned. It will be good then. You will bathe me with cool wet lavender and chamomile oils, almond oil. You will put honey and mashed bananas on my skin. The light on the water will reflect on the walls like sunlight through the clouds above the Sierra Madre. The long white bulbs become green through my lenses. I put myself into this oven and think of you, the way you baked after you were dead. They say your corpse rose suddenly, snapped, sat straight up from the heat of it. Your final self portrait, you haloed by a ring of flames. I see you, as they said, smiling in the center of a sunflower.
Salad in Suburbia
The pitted date unfolds like a broken cicada skin. Whirring and helpless memories of old houses stunt the burn of lemon juice finding the cracks in my skin; traveling through canals of age. I’ve been here for thirteen years. I’ll be here for thirteen more. Cilantro stems like spindly locust legs unfurl over parsley and pistachio; cling to smooth Pyrex. Food fills a space once lushly loved yet now untouched. In the bowl, it seems, the insects emerge winged and intoxicated; dripping lemon and sherry; glistening oil; sustaining pristine cithara string notes. Ache is all there can be no matter what the species. We sing these songs so long that we die and never notice.
Dear Suburbia 