In my sleep you came again as you often do,
and you    stared  into me  begging for an answer
I still take your  breath away, don’t I      you asked
and all I could say   breathless  
no Louis,     you don’t

I told my good friend
That New York City    is like
A jungle      an acquired taste   we
Were in a car     visiting foster parents
Who were    mostly   Dominican   mostly
Old women   too     and I looked down
At my phone     sent you a picture
Of myself        and waited   for
A response
If you’d ever think   i was the
Prettiest girl   in the world

Many things   and maybe
Im always   just going in circles,
Really not    moving forward
But then again, does it matter?

Who will make my heart ache such
Or make me   eternally   bleed   or beat
Wildly   due to   regret  and
Unrequited love
Who was  it   who   initiated
This  feeling   of sad   of  anger   of
Not wanting   to   grow   up    lose   myself
In legends   of   the land  of the Tsar
Maybe    it   was   you  
Or the day   i discovered    my muse
Was  married
Or    a  blue-eyed     karate kid
Or  a  tall  boy  on a bicycle
Or then again     you
When   you confessed   your fault  and
I listened    not knowing    
What     this   would    all mean

I doubt  now    how
Funny   how sometimes  i feel
So sure   of your emotions
And so quickly  i forget    if you
Ever did love me     as if love
Is something    so fickle    it makes no sense
Should love not   be honest   and real
And solid like a stone    but why does it feel
As if i never   held it    like water   it has always
Felt so fleeting    or fragile    
It may have   been my parents     the abrupt
Changes   in their   words and moods    ive
Always felt    like i didn’t  know     anything
Or what was happening      what happened?  And
Waking up in the morning    to music  on my birthday
But   other days to screams    and   nervous  pleas
To help my mother    who was diabetic   and   dying
And now    you and I    and you, so far away   I
Don’t know how   to deal with it    and I get
Scared at   myself    and I get   scared  of you, does
That make sense    scared   of  
What     we do     with ourselves

My existence is a joke    to those who see me
I am not  woman  enough  to harbor love poems
from those who walk past me    or to have my mother
gloat to church acquaintances   about my beauty  my
travels   my  incredible abilities   or  my outstanding schooling
I have formed myself  in the image of     a snake   down to
the very texture of my skin
How I do desire to be all the things   I tell you, for you’ve
fallen in love   with all the lies I’ve told-how I am strong-willed,
confident, and an all around interesting person
Even worse, I’ve led you to believe that I can surpass
the faults of my past and the pain of my childhood as if
I am a phoenix  rising from ashes   but
I am not a bird   I am human
My father   wanted a son  and even my stocky build
Doesn’t  allow for his mind to see me as such  although
My mother’s best insults insinuate my diet
Resembles that of a man
And where does the mind go when it doesn’t know
what is wrong   or right  
or harsh or kind?  I inherited the sadness of their
Hearts, and no longer am I sure if I can  break away
From it all

I can write about you    forever
About the small things I remember
Of all the pain  and childish habits I
Had when it came to knowing you
Like milkshake dates we never had
Because I was too scared and you were
Too silent
Like watching you through binoculars and back and
Forths from our balconies you must have
Thought I was a creep
And I thought you were divine
And yet when we did sit next to each other
We just didn’t   know what to talk about
And no matter how much I told myself
That you simply took the breath out of me,
I knew    we just weren’t meant  to know
Too much about each other

You remain untouchable  like a legend,
I flipped your pages just enough to
Smell your   soul   and then let you
Take your course, wherever it took you
I don’t desire to know

Ok ok,    I may have skewed the details
Like how you were   digging the deep weeds out
And giggled as I fainted from the heat   or when
I said that if I had bigger ****  you wouldn’t have
Me doing    this    type   of   work  
But you did say: Keep  on talkin’ like that   and see
I gutted the gravel and sand bags as you spread them
Out on the yard    who knew leveling the ground
Would be    this ******* hard
At some point, I guzzled a can of ale    and almost
Hit you with the shovel     digging for any type
Of emotion  I admit,  maybe it was just my fault
I was   crying
Your face and clothes were drenched with sweat and
I was so angry that  you hadn’t called me
Beautiful    
And girls like me     we don’t get that
Luxury

I didn’t hear you when you asked for
A kiss

I sang for you when my faults were few,
And my voice did not stop when they too grew.
I said my children would be just like you.
You kissed my cheek and then withdrew.
And when you weren’t there, I felt it still.
I sang for you when my faults were few,
Doubtful my foot would fit into a glass shoe.
But I was the Hum and you were the Hill.
I said my children would be just like you.
You caught the flightless bird that flew,
The outward slave with inner free will.
I sang for you when my faults were few,
When we hadn’t known we were one, but separate: two.
Could you hold my best parts and my worst ones ****?
I said my children would be just like you.
These stars prefer walls of graveled blue.
Could you really love my frailties and skills?
I sang for you when my faults were few,
I want my children to be just like you.

They come out and I wrote
to you that I write nothing new. I write
the same thing in different words and
people don’t change in my plots. So I wrote
to Envy and asked her if she cries often
and why it is she hates women. Maybe she’s a
lesbian, maybe she just loves us too much.

Write of me,
dark eyes and *****
face with drying pink tears,
red with blood,
from dehydration.
Speak to me,
and when your mouth
touches mine,
spit sugar
down my throat.
Walk through brambles,
stupid prince who
will get the beauty
despite
big feet and long
hair.
Do you know
the feeling,
when you’re in too
deep?
Sweet story of your heart,
bitter when it starts;
I’m curious, sad maybe,
write of me. Ellis is not a name.
I am not Ellis.
I do not conquer
hearts of wolves.
Write of me,
prince,
ignorant however,
with sugar-fleshed
cheeks.
Sing.
Sing.

I wonder
what you do in those retreats,
those wanderings into the woods.
What do you accomplish?
What do you fulfill?
Do you hunger perhaps, for the taste of
luxury and collapse?

And I can see you,
bow and arrow on your shoulders,
waiting for the deer.
And what is it that you do, coming back
sweaty and nervous, giddy and wanting,
lusting.
Long-haired, skinny man, dark eyes
and pale-skinned-
you come home    wet.
And I wonder if I can still love you
after all the women
who have followed your steps,
eaten from your mouth, kissed it,
loved you.

You come back hot, red veins
like demons in your eyes. Dark shadows
thirst for what you’ve already
tasted.
Are you some-type of prophet?
Do you think yourself a God, a prince?
Surely no God eats with his fingers.

But do tell me instead that I am a queen,
yours to take and ravish and hold.

And fall from your mountain,
and come down to earth.
For prophets love all women,
and I desire you
for only myself.

In the front seat of your car
When I was younger, and sadder,
You and I used to take long walks and
Take photographs of people here in the City.
Sometimes, we would sit at cafes and exchange
Poems, stories. We were going to be artists, and live the
Good life. But then
I think I fell in love     with the thinness of your frame
And more possibly     your stories and the freeness of your spirit.
And I think       you did not feel the same about me.
Now,      I watch you still and wonder about
the nature
Of your thoughts.  Do you see me grown?
Now you,      an accountant
And me?       Just here.

This hooded man mutters in your ear,
speaks of minotaurs and heroes. You
said we had found Winesburg long ago.
We know he works at Costco, but now
we know his name is David, this hooded
man. He wore a straw hat from Thailand
days ago, thought perhaps he was
eccentric and out-of-the box.
He is,  I think.
It scares me dear, that he heard our small
talk, all those words that slipped
from our lips
into his ears…

Does he know us more than those who think
they know us?

What may I be?
The first crazy woman in time.
The one he ***** and impregnated. I
gave birth to Adam,
maybe. The beginning
of the world began
with me.
Who may I be?
The first woman he loved. And
did I keep coming back, only
in different bodies and times?
So many children we
lost count.
And can it be,
after so many years of
crying babes and ****** wars,
of greedy boys and jealous daughters,
we found each other once again?

Me, the first woman?
And you, the first man?

YOU are the smell of
earth after
rain
but they tell me i
smell of weakness all
over why is it that
i cannot recognize
myself anymore and i
wish i were floating above
and could send you
my words and touches
with the wind but you cannot
see my face or my body
and what happens with the past
and i’m not making sense
because like every good story
teller i don’t tell you
all at first.
You are the smell
of earth after water
pours out from the sky
to the trees, down from the clouds
and when
the water touches my rough
skin everything is broken,
like still moments, watching
sleeping mermaids and speckled
mermen.

Green-eyed machine,
no legs and just waiting for
a pair of hands to push him through.
Man with whimpering throat sounds,
stumbling words and inaudible messages.
I can’t understand you. Glenn, wheelchair man
in his thirties with green eyes and a twisted mouth.
He wants to see Springsteen in theaters, but the movie
hasn’t come out yet. He gets angry and
asks to see the manager. Glenn. Glenn
sells chocolates at the station and
crawls with three hundred bucks in
his pocket everywhere he goes.
I think I’d kiss him
if I were older, and if I weren't so
embarrassed to be near him

At the   gay bar    everyone tipsy   jell-o shots
We   watched   the drag queens    perform   and then
We watched    the male dancers   all beautiful    sculpted
They all    knew  how to tease     and we met
Sergio      and this kid from    Venezuela    we asked him
First     are you Russian?     And then this kid from North Carolina,
Seemed    deep    but the more we spoke to him    the more
Empty he appeared    and I felt sad     staring into his
Big blue eyes      grazed his strong thigh    he was a sweet boy
His left  ear was pierced      and before you know it    i’m  running
Back stage,    the drag queens   saying   honey, you can’t come in here
And I’m crying my eyes out       saying i need to find Sergio from North
Carolina     and    they can’t seem to find him   well, because
He wasn’t Sergio     from  NC     everyone we met that night
Seemed to   have merged     only afterwards,      did I begin
To remember      individual      stories.

The day I drunk   dialed you
Was the way   I burnt    the trail
I built    to reach   you.

My eyes still look for you
On sixth floor balconies    all
Over town.

If I were   coded
like a machine    would you be able
to solve   me out and    see all my   sins  ?
Maybe   you weren’t the    bad one    to begin with

The good   est     girl    
Sometimes    the smartest   and
I was taught to  be ambitious   and
Although    he wanted us to be tough, somehow
We ended   up weaker than    we ever
Thought we’d be      so brittle     we cry
When strangers    get angry at us    like
When    we went to Atlantic City
And decided to sit in different seats     and the
Whole bus     yelled   and inside, well
I knew they were right       about
Us being wrong
I was   my father’s daughter     before
I even knew     who I was

What was I dreaming   about?
A cabinet   full   of sad secrets    must
Have been      before you woke   me up
Screaming,  frenzied    because
Of a big   flea you found    at the corner
Of your bed      where is mama?   I asked
You were   shaking    and I was too   but
You    were scared   about the  flea   and
Whether   it had gotten   so fat   because
It was   feeding   on you  
All this time    and I found
Mom on the couch, covered up in thick
Blankets     i was shaking too
As I saw her   asleep     cause
She never sleeps.

How exactly  it happened
not so sure   but before you knew it
I had blown up like a blow fish
and round like a plum, i got red
at the truth
in your remarks

The nonsense remarks our fathers tell us, for example:
We are all beautiful inside and we must get a
good education. Well, for the most part, they are right.
But my father also    mocks   the sound of
my   tears   and    when I
eat      my mother  strikes my hand  as I
grab for   a piece of naan   or something
like, you can imagine.    I feel weak at
times despite the   calories,
like a shriveled berry.
Sometimes,  I call a boy
when my eyes have dried  so as to not disrupt
a balance. I am sure he may feel
lonely at times, but he runs and
absorbs himself in his sciences
and religious texts.
Me?      I am a rat girl who digs
old things from their hideouts in my room.    My old
stories and fantasies
of a prince who reads my hidden letters,
finds them first actually,
instead of my brown hand          pulling          his ear          toward
me.  Me, saying softly:
look
inside
here.

The bird, they said, did many things.
My sister said it died, like our old one,
Fell unto the cage’s edge like a feather. And I suppose,
if it was picked up by my mother, it must
have been rigid and cold. But
My father, he said it had stopped eating,
and in a paramount effort to escape, grew thin, and
squeezed out from the cage.

Maybe    it succeeded.

I sat on your bed, boiling hot
Aching all over. I stared up at the
Stars we had plastered-together
On your ceiling.
Your hand touched your crotch-the mattress
Moved side to side, I just wanted your hand on
My forehead, words like: “You are the most
Beautiful girl I have ever known.” Although,
Had you made such a comment,

I would      not    have    believed    you.

I sat boiling hot, like in hell, sweat on my back, and on my
*******-but I did not want you to touch them.
So your hand grabbed at your crotch, I heard your moaning
As I sat comatose, still, waiting
As you pleased a biological extremity-a hungry and base
Instinct       to ***

You wouldn’t know, would you? About the slim man
You talk with at midnight-well, I know him. His name
Is Louis and once upon a time,
I watched him from my sixth floor apartment.
His name is Louis.
His name is Louis.
****, his name is Louis.

Avery        sat  across   the room in two classes
Of mine-starky, lean, and well       philosophical.
His brown eyes only scanned me         I was
Nothing     to him.
He always stormed in      just in time  
I’d think     he must be absent    today
But no       there he’d come,  tall    white    and well,
Alluring.
His bags all over the floor     how could he make
Mess look so       classy        so           elegant
****. He
Spoke with such   top-notch   diction   and
His voice-straight, methodical, structured
But perhaps the enchantment came from
His cedar-like after-smell    like Jewish markets
In the City. That rich, well-educated, cocky      smell.
Avery sat across the room, and read his writing

I read mine to him,    but
I was nothing
To him.

Living      Room

Here   we die    every day

If I tell you how much I weigh,  
the weight of my mind
the mass   of my body    and the burden
of my histories
or make you see    instead  
the weight of yours  
what will become of our children?
Will they  hold   all the things we hate
about ourselves most  
or will they be    sacred  

as all children
should be?

When I can  not direct my body to release
appropriately   I resort to dreams of a handsome
boy, a ******* addict at a motel whose sole purpose
is to please me    and somewhere in the narrative he
falls deeply in love with my zestful spirit,
and so, I embrace him   and I rub against him,
but somewhere here, the whole thing becomes
quite maternal
and I cannot recognize him as the
****** object of my desires
  
that is when I begin to write of him,
the texture of his skin, the ice in his eyes, the veins on his neck,
the girth of his manhood as he
lowers himself unto me and looks at me
desperately as if I am the goddess
that will give him all the riches of earth.

Panamanian myth woman-was it true?
They left you hanging there just for the view?
And you kissed an imp for the sake of emotion,
But, he cursed you instead with his peoples’ potions,
Built you a rose-bed with a hole so you’d fall through?

Panamanian myth woman-tell me things as you recall,
Did he sing you to sleep and turn you into a doll?
Were you bleeding strong when they bit you to bits?
Did you ever suspect his love was counterfeit,
Or did your faith die with their psalms and alcohol?

Panamanian myth woman-from where did you rise?
They said from the West, where a cat gave you its eyes,
And when the men first pinched your cheeks,
You scratched and gave the sharpest shriek,
So loud, even the moon was traumatized.

Panamanian myth woman-did it hurt?
Their hands yanking at the seams of your skirt?
The way they fooled you was as old as mankind,
A simple trick of the heart and mind,
In the end, you crawled for hours in the dirt.

Panamanian myth woman-what did you take?
For you left the land barren and full of snakes.
And all their men still curse your story,
Of how they maimed your status and glory,
Your body, suspended at their village gate.

Panamanian myth woman-is that true?
They left you hanging there just for the view?
But others say you flew on West,
And became the muse for a hero’s quest,
And he built you a tower nothing could break through.

I was walking up  and you were
Coming down    from Snake hill  on a late
Saturday  night  and all I kept wondering was
How   could   i get you   to touch me

To fight     despite  territorial  challenges
To thrive  amidst  natural fears  and  inherited guilts
how to   be  successful    I ask    God  or the
saints    I cherished  in childhood  
how  do I live    happy here?  I can barely
eat in peace   always thinking about   the rapid
breaths  the sadness that consume  you two
who   tried to raise   me   grateful