I always write about the aftermath
Nightmares
shame
trauma
I never write about the heat of his breath
his hands in my hair.
I speak of women’s rights
Body autonomy
Feminism
But never of the fist around my throat
blood on my thighs
zip tie on my wrists
I tell girls that they’re strong
Destroy the patriarchy
Men are trash
But I’m silent like the tape is still over my mouth
Around me, skyscrapers of coral
waved yellow banners
Fish dressed in armor hammered
from the scattered shards of rainbows
Sand Dollars slimy and half-buried,
their purple cloaks made of royal velvet
Dressed for a parade I could not name
Anenome swaying,
twitching
reaching for something
A sandpaper-silk handshake as tendrils hold my palm to examine
and release with a dissatisfied recoil.
Urchins with dangerous halos
slowly moving, clinging
wuills working like fingers to explore
Swarms of fearless minnows
as thick and numerous as summer gnats
Every inch of this blue world saturated
with living minds
Sea turtles as swift as sparrows
Rays with wings wider than the length of me
Jellies twitching to follow a moon yet to rise.
Tiny crabs half-glowing with electric blue and yellow claws
Laughing eels with pinprick spots so thicky laid they looked like freckles.
All of them
Curious
Calm
and unafraid
my master is an old innkeeper, rich.
his reach, vast.
i serve him,
but the choice was mine.
i hold him harmless, and celebrate him.
the ghosts and the quick come here tonight.
part one:
my love stretches gossamer wisps ’cross the banquet hall, and
almost unsure at first, it sidles up, then
whole, rushing,
uninterrupted, complete—
i find you.
i know you all.
i know what you want before you even do.
i am the hand of your host.
allow me to help you.
perhaps we will converse much later.
if you invite me.
fattening the calf
i know you at the head, the end, and those flanking sides.
i measure your silverware, scatter red petals across the cloth,
pour your water, bitters, coffee, tea to delight (and bursting).
from one point to another of table—the plates, crystal, and
cruets my work, direction, and diligence.
what do you say of the evening’s elegance?
the luxury
your study is war, to wage it, or to remain wary at peace.
will you ladies and lords content yourselves with a digestif?
in the library—over brandies, cream sherries—much older than i,
the genghis khan, the kshatriya sage, and bearded mahomet in white.
do i dare regale them with the tale of my last breathing night?
surely not.
part two:
to eat a peach
there was my papí and his manzanilla—can you tell me why
childhood was so lonely, when you gave me everything?—
when you and mamí never tired of holding me?—
was i dropped on my head?
did you even really like me? or did you love your work instead?
that night, i received the luxury,
the four horseman gallop in time with my heart.
know, i came to serve in exchange for one.tiny.part.
when the luxury comes home to you—the black cat making you her own,
or the hawk in possession of her prey, no explanations are
due to you — you give thanks, and
you give the gift of breath for kingship over the animal parade.
now run. to begin, i like you better that way.
My brain wears a beret inherited
from my father as my eyes search
menus to locate the aromas my nose
seeks while my tongue dreams
of avocado slices steeped in lime
juice and my heart thumps in anticipation
of adopting a white cat whose tail will tickle
my soles and elicit screeches not like those
of fingernails on blackboards that mirror
the anxieties overwhelming me on elevators
or when my lower back aches prompting
my clitoris to respond with its ironic sense
of humor and my Achilles tendons to thrum
in unison as my left leg follows
the leaden lead of the right.
The last thing I remember from
my last life was feeling put-upon.
I was pulled in so many directions
that all the semi-precious stones
I’d been hoarding in my stomach
poured out onto the shag carpet
as my body split diagonally in two.
The girls gasped and I died ashamed.
Pine Mountain Cemetery X
Martha
Martha lying over to the right was a late-born.
Mother really too old, but carried her anyway.
She screamed into a world little prepared for her.
Did you ever see a person who just seemed
To be put together with two different pieces?
Martha had a round eye and a slanted one.
She had a long arm and one with a crook,
Her teeth had a not unattractive overlap
As if the intended pattern did not quite fit.
Her light hair never matched her black moods,
Or tantrums, or demands to be seen and heard.
Why she never knew her world stayed
Glued to her every whim was a mystery
Never solved by their stoic clan. Her kin
Whispered behind their hands, but never raised
A finger to bend her to something like normal.
Just let her be, we can still hear her daddy say.
She’s sure to grow out of it and walked away.
Never was there an emptier hope, she even killed
Him in one of her temper fits. Oh yes, he lived on
A bit, but something broke inside. Still it’s a
Shame she is buried all alone. Her mother
Could never agree that family should lie
Together toward eternity. See? I still give in
And her gone these thirty years. Some have
A witch’s eye and born that way there’s no
Way to wiggle free. Not her fault I guess,
But on the other hand it’s not mine either.
High time I stop trying to make her normal.
It’s a wonder daisies dare bloom so near.
My heart
I left it on the L train
Apart
It fell just like the rain
Took my hat off and felt it on my brain
Just put up your guard
You act like you never felt pain
Keep those tear ducts shut
A man ‘posed to bottle it all up
Will you just pour some out
For the fallen homies
But they wouldn’t
Cuz they were all alcoholics
Without them feelin lonely
Don’t know what else you could call it
But one stick out like a sore thumb
Knew what got you
Didn’t have to wait for the postmortem
Like against the dying of the light
Gotta rage against the boredom
Constant reminders to distract me from
Just thinkin of you
Just thinkin of you
My heart
I left it on the L train
Apart
It fell just like the rain
Took my hat off and felt it on my brain
Just put up your guard
You act like you never felt pain
These are the pennies my mother wedged under thresholds
I hold them out to you;
Wedge them under the door jamb
That opens to your breakfast tomorrow
Or to your friend’s phone
This is the egg that the artist passes over their chest
It is heavier than before he maneuvered it.
Let’s hide it where birds will find it
And they will disperse its evils so thin
That even they have no ill bird-luck
This is the salt and oil that the verse writer siphons with
She knows when there are shadows in the home
Place them on the sills and guide out wayward portents
That live inside your dreams or your laptop
And there will be no carcass scent here
And there will be no starling in the kitchen
And there will be no death crowns in the pillow
And there will be no blood in the yolk
And there will be no hen’s crow at midday
And there will be no water ignored in dreams
