Flux

Let's remember it like damp dish towels clothespinned drying on the line,
in the breeze, in a breeze of the breath of the sea.
Let's remember it like waking to windless rain, waking in quiet gray
the gutter releasing its veins to the lawn.
Let's remember it like wine like water, corks strewn across the counter
wending away like unbound logs rollicking down a river.
Let's remember it like fluidity, we followed the course or the course
chose us, intuitively drifting afloat.
Then let's just let it go.
Let's just leave it at that. Let's just leave it alone like we lost the map.
Let's just leave it like a squall-split mast pitched headlong into the surf.
Let's just leave it like its anchor severed and sunk to the depths
of the earth, where the darkness is colder and darker
than wonder could ever dive below
and below, where skeleton fish of bulbed light and string
never blink and barely glow,
where the root of it can disappear as silently and as swiftly
as memory evades and escapes.
Let's just jump this abandoned ship and offer it to the waves.

.

Dysplasia

When I was born my hip bones resisted
their sockets. In that gap, dark
slender spaces. Curves of crescent
moons—dividing, resentful of hanging
so far from the sky.

Doctors probed, set
4-inch metal pins to ligaments
stuck needles in my veins
scraped for thin shadows of tissued
shades, lifting them into light.

Finally, bone broke through the moon
retreating close against socket.

Over time, their union became
swifter, smoother. They now eclipse
in natural order; their rotation
steady, and strong.

And yet, there are still traces of
moon dust, drifting—

mornings of fog and rain.
A stretch of something dark and filmy,
nearly shadow, yet penetrating.
This fixed divide between satellite and sky
where what should shine retrogrades.

.

After the Last Dark Cloud Rolls By

After the last dark cloud rolls by
there is a stillness.
And the light, because it is
weightless, is perfect.

Your heart swells beneath this sky.
It erupts at random from beneath your skin—
each new freckle, a fire.

It is possible, that tonight
you will glow in the dark.

And no matter the moon
no matter the stars

the path before you will be lit.

.

Adrift

Drifting in the fractured light
he met me underwater.
At the ceiling
of the surface, waves
collapsed unto each other
and a dull roar
resonated. Like a swell
his gaze enveloped me,
each orb blue
and naked.

How long had I been holding my breath?

.

My Heart Keeps Asking for Another Glass of Wine

My heart keeps asking for another glass
of wine. It says every rose has its thorns
but slender stemmed wine glasses don't.

It encourages me to leave the bottle
out, beside the burrata, the olives, baguette—
a small tribute to France

because my heart has been helping me pretend
we've moved to Paris

where warm spring rain kisses carousels and babies
and cigarettes have filters for ugliness

and we could neglect to wash our hair or
shave our legs and armpits and no one

would notice. In Paris, I could be No One
with a heart of dry white wine.

I'd save every bottle, and slip a note
inside, notes like,

"Could you love me when I'm absolutely still?" and,

"What makes the loudest noise?" and,

"What if our signs are incompatible?" and,

"Even if you were deathly afraid, could you have faith in me?"

My heart wants to know these answers. I'd line
the bottles in my yard.

Then I would busy myself, walking amongst
the lithe, lovely Parisians. I would traipse
through the gardens and visit Monet
at the museum. I'd dance at the discotheque
and recline in the grass at public concerts.
I would work for a magazine published
with striking, glossy covers.

And soon, it would be summer.

By then, the sun would have faded the ink
of every note I'd written. By then
I would like to think I'd be
a stronger person.

My heart would have its answers,
and I would be at peace.

.

Ume

Ume trees flower
in late winter.
They are symbols of resilience,
perseverance, blooming against
snowy backdrops—
their pastel petals
vibrant in the midst
of endless, icy grays.

Ume.
Like "you" and "me."
Perennial, enduring
separate trees.

I will remember you in beauty.

.