Lion

His laugh and bright eyes are the nail in the

coffin of my broken days 

The words of hope spring from his lips and

pour over the rent and tilled soil of my memories 

I feel the symphony of his voice, wind making leaves dance,

drawing green-sprout smiles from my mouth-corners

He wraps my organs with his strong arms and shakes loose

the dark beads of bitterness until it tickles

He thanks me for my stories

And I thank God for him, and for teaching him the

same language that my insides speak

So I know, no matter where I put my roots, there are those for

whom I won't need to translate or paraphrase

5.18.16

Dedication: For you. You don't know who you are, but thank you.

Amai

Her breath is milky with stars and violet

Ivy and wisteria hang from her thoughtful tongue 

She wraps her powerful, tree-trunk thighs around Earth's waist 

Her womb is cool, cavern depths with jade stalactites 

Her finger spread wide, verdant maple leaves, and soft 

Icy mountain rivers run between her breasts with every sigh 

Her laugh is fingers sunk and tearing strawberry flesh 

Crimson juices drip down to soil forearms and boulder elbows 

Her irises are red waterfalls of lava, her pupils cold obsidian 

Her tears are cracked pebbles of azure topaz tumbling and 

Crumbling down the mountain-sides of her elevated cheekbones 

The soft slopes of her collarbone are snowdrifts of pure powder, white 

Follicles of orchards and vineyards grow from her whirlpool mind 

Wine and water wander their way through her oaken veins 

The gradual, inviting curves of her hips serve 

As a cradle for deep valleys and ravines that divide the ranges 

She is the sweet aroma of decomposing leaves and the intruding heat 

Of the unabashed and golden summer sunshine 

Her song is giggling creeks and vaporous, sighing geysers 

Her skin is soft moss, too green to be called green 

She is death 

She is life 

She is mother 

Amai 

5.17.16

14 years later

She told me, with a wagging finger, that I was selfish, that everyone is

Her declaration sunk straight to the bottom of my soft, 9-year-old heart

And I revolted, I couldn't defend myself from her distorted lenses

But my small back was resolute, my bloodstream

Full of rioting villagers with sharp scythes and pitchforks

Now, 14 years later, I wonder where she is

What she's doing. I wonder if life gave her

A bludgeon-proof exoskeleton, or, rather if she purchased one

With her tears and heavy drops of sweat

I wonder if the mannerisms of her love ever changed

I wonder if she saw the fingerprint impressions

People left her with little more than dark blue vignettes

And elusive eel memories of how the world is lumpy and asymmetrical

I wonder if other children disliked her, with her baggy sweaters and sharp edges

A stalwart unto herself, her love, clumsy and didactic

Hers was a hug-less love that forced me to eat my tomatoes

I felt she had no right to my home yet she tried to rule it

With a fist more firm than my mother's

She wasn't a step-mother, that young, invited guest of ours

She was one of the first to stoke the waking embers of my future fury

She spoke falsehoods over my fledgling spirit

Yet somehow I understood she herself had been quenched years ago

But they named the water-buckets "love" and "wisdom"

So I forgave her, and 14 years later, I wonder where she is

She-devil

Throw her out into the streets

Until her bruised knees and elbows

Serve as targets for your stones

4.28.16

The white stag

His eyes tumble greedily from her lips to her ankles

Pointedly overlooking her eyes and feet

Her eyes that would peer into his darkness

And make him feel like a man

Her feet that would carry her to his side, the warmth of her

Body and heat of her gaze rendering him helpless

Her pale skin, smooth, freckled

Returns her to the mind, she, the commodity

She will refuse to be paraded down the widewalk

As he says, "Look! I got one!"

No, you didn't

4.28.16

Scapegoat

I want to sink my teeth into

For every cheek familiar with the back of a hand

For each ripped strand of cardiac muscle

I will carve the names of their tears in your flesh

I will draw blinding drops from your tear ducts

For every glance under which she shifted in discomfort

I will tattoo her limp body on your eyelids

So that her suffering is your lullaby

I will grind your teeth into powder

So you know what it's like to be reduced to mouth and tongue

I will adhere your hands to the stovetop

Where you brewed your poisons for her mind

And at the end of it all I will not apologize

For I am insanity incarnate and I will sacrifice you

Om the altar of every smile stolen from a little girl

Who just wanted to have wings and wear a crown of leaves

4.28.16

Nicotine

I consume poetry like cigarettes

Rolling the pages and inhaling the words deep into my lungs

The ink staining my fingers and teeth and the balloon

Of my breaths, smoky dioxide exhales, full of conversations

That I never had but wanted to

I hold the phrases, warm, between my lips

So I can use my hands to tell stories and paint murals

With each draw a new rib cracks and my nerves calm

4.29.16