I had become acquainted
with unseeing eyes that still saw
too much. The cloister of a cocoon
meant to preserve all that remained

after the fire coursed through, crying.
The heaviness of stories I had clung to
like the hand of a parent who had
already slipped away and failed

to realize the child who saw beyond
the mirage, who hoped against hope
for even an artificial light to provide
warmth, to somehow be unveiled

as the source to begin with. Was I still
wandering into a borrowed tomb,
unable to discern these times, seasons
that ushered in the fragile new growth

when all I'd known was decay? Carry
that weight and leave the shell. Let
the molten fragments be found
by the next unsuspecting stranger

eagerly awaiting new rains. I had been
steeped too long in the deluge of death
only to shrink from the only true light
that could heal those deepest parts

of my being, of those stories I wished
weren't mine to hold. Still, the flicker illuminated all they had wanted to keep me from knowing all along.

I sank into the familiar couch — tense, prepared
for chastisement. I was met with warmth, a calm
reassurance that the events that had transpired

all served a greater purpose. A necessary unraveling.
Arriving at the end of myself at last. Could I salvage
a sense of normalcy? Did I want to? Things had shattered

beyond repair. What was I meant to hold onto? Discard?
Regeneration seemed an unattainable summit not meant for me.
As if reading my mind, my therapist spoke, his words of truth

stirring my spirit in a way my mind could not fathom.
When you experience that fear, go back to that place of surrender.
No more and no less. In silence, we sat in that dim sanctuary

for some time, the drone of the cars outside a sharp reminder
that I was still alive. I had people on my side who did not turn
their eyes away from my fragmented state of being. I spoke now

of the gradient colors of maples across the street. A brilliant hue.
My tone was flat, but it was still an observation made
with intact faculties.. Yes, that’s it. Keep that awareness. My therapist
nodded his encouragement. This is good. You’re able to focus, to recognize
beauty in the mundane. Keep going. Somehow, this simple statement
imbued me with the resolve to continue. My voice wavered

as I recalled how I saw my entire life flash before my eyes  
like a cruel cliché. How I was swept up into some
parallel dimension. One that was so much more real than this

world I’d been immersed in. You need to write it all down. At this point,
you may not be able to differentiate which parts truly happened and which parts
were illusions. So you’ll need to capture it all. His words rang true, and yet —

how could I bring myself to experience this once more,
to solidify what had happened to me and what I was still
moving through? Something in me knew that he was connecting it

all back to something much bigger than either of us. Something
or Someone present through it all. A silent witness who held the only
key that would set me free. The Truth that still waited patiently for me.

what I remember: a country road, your wild
will to live far beyond the ordinary, the cold way

you darkened your eyes, cutting as people
often do with whatever they long to do

away with: that last meal with some specter
from your past, the sharp glance burning

one or another 'almost' lover. Now, the only
wild seedlings in my life are in my garden —

they lay dormant, awaiting the moment I sprinkle
a few precious droplets from my favorite teapot,

regret slipping into the cracked earth again.
There is no victor that emerges. All is silent.

Melancholy tea;
Steaming so delicately
Filling with transparency
Light fragrance and an indirect
Flavor of neglect in
A rimmed broken teacup.

It’s so late I could cut my lights
and drive the next fifty miles
of empty interstate
by starlight,
flying along in a dream,
countryside alive with shapes and shadows,
but exit ramps lined
with eighteen wheelers
and truckers sleeping in their cabs
make me consider pulling into a rest stop
and closing my eyes. I’ve done it before,
parking next to a family sleeping in a Chevy,
mom and dad up front, three kids in the back,
the windows slightly misted by the sleepers’ breath.
But instead of resting, I’d smoke a cigarette,
play the radio low, and keep watch over
the wayfarers in the car next to me,
a strange paternal concern
and compassion for their well being
rising up inside me.
This was before
I had children of my own,
and had felt the sharp edge of love
and anxiety whenever I tiptoed
into darkened rooms of sleep
to study the peaceful faces
of my beloved darlings. Now,
the fatherly feelings are so strong
the snoring truckers are lucky
I’m not standing on the running board,
tapping on the window,
asking, Is everything okay?
But it is. Everything’s fine.
The trucks are all together, sleeping
on the gravel shoulders of exit ramps,
and the crowded rest stop I’m driving by
is a perfect oasis in the moonlight.
The way I see it, I’ve got a second wind
and on the radio an all-night country station.
Nothing for me to do on this road
but drive and give thanks:
I’ll be home by dawn.

In the dim half-light turned blue, she gazes
up at the bees who’ve trapped themselves
in her skylight, the slow hum of tired wings
beating against fat, desperate bodies.

A lone fly flits about up there, also, at ease
in its unbelonging. The bees circle
in growing anxiety, then slow to a crawl.
My throat tightens as I see my mother

grab the flyswatter. Don’t, I whisper,
but her tiny frame is already climbing up
on the kitchen table, her focus unwavering.
Oh, I won’t **** them, she grins,

her arm extending the fly swatter high,
a meager offering swathed in good cheer.
I rush over to steady her body to keep her
from tipping over in this precarious pursuit.

She waves away my offer to trade places
with her. You’re very pregnant, she says,
and her tone tells me there is no arguing
with her. My mother murmurs in Mandarin

to the agitated creatures, calling them
beautiful, letting them know she sees them,
sees how they’ve been up there for far too long
swelling with exhaustion and mistrust.

The first bee slowly climbs onto the swatter
as if entranced by her sweet, clear voice.
She hands me the swatter, and I fumble
with the backyard door, nervously

carrying it into her garden. I place the bee atop
one of my mother’s flowerbeds. It clings
to a sunset-orange bud, and I make my way
back inside. In silence, we retrieve, hand off,

and rehome each bee until all eight are
safely in the garden. Not one makes
any move to leave, content to simply rest
a while, to savor the fresh air, to revel

in the sacred space my mother holds
for every being she meets. In the fading light,
I watch her linger in the bare kitchen, a shadow
of a smile gracing her face. If only

they could see her in this light. Would anything
change? Or would she still merely be the next subway
push, another fatal stabbing as she returns home,
one more life snuffed out in a now-empty nail salon?