El Tren 3

January 30, 2012

The muffled gargling sound that things make when underwater.


In the foggy memories, in the windows, there is much to be collected, but not much to be held on to.


Children with stranger faces move up and down the isles reciting loose mantras, weak with virtue.


Teeth missing from their smiles, but in the most beautiful way.


Romani (Gypsy) family near Craiova. Romania, probably 1930s.


A Conversation via Text

January 26, 2012

The temperature of a kiss,
it is not to be taken lightly
or held to.

Tightly enveloping fears,
and pressing them to teeth
and pressing teeth to grin.

Slaves we are to the texture of paint,
the prison of light,
and the stains it leaves.

Sometimes when I am alone and quite still,
I am the safest I can be.

The Best Poem I Ever Wrote

January 24, 2012

I see what things could be and not what they are.

La tierra seca, me encanta.

F = ma

January 21, 2012

Of similar heel:

A play of divinity is necessary for me to understand
and the shape of your hands.

In the morning when the sun turns my sheets blue,
I feel my hair fall upon my naked body,
I remember every word from the night before.

So as I swell,
with some importance,
I cannot put my finger on the driving force.

Nine Muses

January 20, 2012

(To be read at a whisper)

It starts with the cracks in the window seal,
maps on the silver sides of leaves,
arches and bellows
heads on their pillows,
then sounds of safely going to sleep.

In the fragments,
there were fields of:
the Sound
her foot made,
just after saying, “Good Night.”

The tone of the room,
as the wallpaper bloomed,
and crept into sight,
and held you so tight!
To cradle you into your dreams.

Delicate and whispering,
the shadows came forth,
then scratching at the walls,
then off to a canter,
and mother’s tea pot screaming:

You are only dreaming!

Your face is soft now!

Nothing is hurting!

And we politely kiss your cheeks.

Welcome Home…
We missed you while you were away.

Tree House/Alternate Fiction

January 19, 2012

I will never forget what you taught me about perfection, and how for a moment, we lived in a glass house, full of light.

We decorated and believed in our dreams, and lit candles before dinner every night.

Having already named our children, it was hard to put them to sleep the last time I finally left:

You, curled on a brand new sofa with a painting of a woman taming a lion above it, crying the same invisible tears you always did.

Me, collecting change off the counter to pay for the taxi to take me away for good, my bag already packed.

And still so much time has passed, and I can’t seem to shake the masterpiece we let slip away.

The little secrets we kept, and the first time you read me Nabokov, I was naked on your bed with the exception of a pair of leather boots.

We were an empire.

We would have been able to destroy anything that got in our way, if I could have trusted, and you could have been honest about desire.

I would have let you be whatever you were.

And still so much time has passed, and I can’t seem to shake the masterpiece we let slip away.

Screeching breaks on an old road in Bordeaux.

Slamming door after slamming door and two nights before Christmas begging for air again on the kitchen floor.

Or  you pacing Barrio Gotico looking for a drunkard who was spread out near lifeless on a dirty sofa wrapped around a vintage guitar. Three levels above the street, where you were pacing… and far from able to meet your needs.

So now and then I am forced to think about how much we laughed, and our funny dances, and endless nicknames and that you could kill me with a sentence, and how I would look into your eyes and wonder if I could even reach the bottom.

And how we fought ourselves most fiercely of all.

I am monster.

Two PM

January 18, 2012

If I lived a door down from you,
I would send you little notes with no name.
Patiently I’d pause,
each day for the mail man.
My ear pressed to the wall,
waiting for your laughter,

and how it fills me.