Serra

my friend the poet
lays with me in the center
of our womb
more metallic than either of us
remembers it
but holding us all the same.
we are the swell of a wave
that carries only once
and this moment is so sacred
I begin to want to tame it
freeze it
hold it still.
it is just then
we are joined by a
young boy living in
a continuous laugh
who runs in and around us
and out once again
leaving behind the echo
of freedom

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deoxyribonucleic

I try to see the universe
as a mindless thing
but I can’t take myself
too seriously.
my DNA is too loquacious,
125 billion gregarious miles of babbling
genetic brook, begging to be
heard. if a little thing like me
makes all this noise,
what cacophony must
the rest of reality
wreak in the void?

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-

young again tonight!
the windows down,
smoke passed ’round,
cruising the financial district
like a pack of hooligans
singing to strangers
embracing the ridiculous

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home cooking

we learned to make her pancakes
we watched her crack the eggs
mix the yogurt
sugar
flour
learned to drip the batter into
sizzling oil and
wait just long enough
before flipping them
over

the recipe was less numbers
and more feel-
her hands, so old and strong,
her eyes, erupting in color
from a fountainhead of wrinkled skin,
her breaths, measuring out the time
spent teaching us

i come home after a long day
to the tupperware on the top shelf
of the refrigerator,
that holy grail of her
sacred pancakes.
I bless them on the stove top,
giving them heat,
bringing her touch back to life.
I anoint them with
sour cream
and drown myself in her artistry
knowing that I learned
the recipe for a reason. one day
I will have to make them
for myself.

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neighborhood

it’s a hard world outside
I hear the crack of hand on skin

she screams,
but her pain is
drowned out

he yells a hard line

I press my body to the wall
beside the window
casting sheepish glances
at the scene

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