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a brittle back
a restless heart
a race to see
which falls apart

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nourishment

before i leave for work,
i weave a cocoon
for my story

i tuck it in a quiet corner
a place forgotten by cats and dust
where it can grow

when i come home at night
i carry it softly to bed
and regurgitate the sun

into its mouth

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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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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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success

I stopped thinking and it came
it was that easy
like slicing flesh and bleeding ink
perhaps a lucky break
maybe never again
but tonight I sleep on a bed of words
and for me
that will always be enough

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trinity

my skin believes in fables.
it prickles in the nighttime,
soothed by the crackling hiss of fire
warmed by the way old crones
weave mystery from the mundane.

my bones are atheists.
they sense their degradation,
feel themselves grow fragile
brittle and ready to break.
they know no god but entropy.

my mind is undecided.
it swims in molecules and bathes in electricity,
not understanding its own workings,
parsing the outside into its smallest parts,
awed by the fury of the whole.

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in the dark

in the dark
I found my skin
wanting for touch
my hard body
real, fibrous, unbroken

in the dark
I saw myself spread
across the infinite
breaking into particles
freed through death

in the dark
I suffered, dwarfed
by the void, crying
soundlessly for mercy
I could only give myself

in the dark
I cried for help
and kissed the hands
that helped me
through the night

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there is no North

the compass spasms,
hunting the center
leaving me dizzy
breathless at the spin
in my chest.
I keep waiting
for everything to settle
in some pattern
that has a sense
I can discern,
but the fog grows
like mucus through
my lungs, thickening
with every breath
until the path to shore
is shrouded from my
sight, haunted by
the shriek of indecision,
singing out a siren
call, the only pulse that
guides my shaky steps.

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