When you read a poem from another era,
where certain themes were forbidden,
it feels as though the author died in that moment,
unable to express the words exactly as they wanted.

Once, I used to gaze at the dark moon,
I wandered through the abyss,
I saw the snake’s skin,
My heart was not this dark,
I felt more love,
I read Beddoes,
Everything has grown colder.

For she had not accepted defeat,
nor surrendered to the wanderlust of it all,
trapped in the thick fog of her fear—
a labyrinth of shadows where her voice
dissolved into silence.

Metamorphosing, she carved a hollow,
a space to call home.
Fueled by chemicals measured in increments,
their sterile precision slicing through
the feral ache of her longing.
A hiding place she had conjured
as a child, weaving it from ashes and remorse,
where moths flitted to their amber deaths,
the bulb’s hiss a quiet menace,
its danger humming through the stillness.

Courage tasted metallic, sharp
on her tongue, mingling with the salt
of blood smeared on her fingertips.
Another night sprawled open—
her hair tumbling like restless waves,
her thoughts clutching at themselves,
an ouroboros of lamentation.

Sorrow, a seed lodged deep in her womb,
sprouted thorns that pierced her silence.
Shadows stretched their forgotten forms,
etched in the plot of her life—
a scratch, a swirl, a jagged dance
splattered across canvas,
each brushstroke a hymn to her unraveling.

The ghosts pressed in,
whispering their fractured violence.
No one listened. No one heard.
She knelt, crushed petals
beneath the weight of the world.
“Put the broken pieces back,”
she begged,
“reshape the sharp edges
of my disappointments.”

At the brink of dawn,
the angels sang to her—
their voices a river of grief and duende,
swelling, sweeping,
washing her raw and clean.

He was her anam cara,
the raindrops kissed on her raven's beak,
moonstones refracting fractured light.
He was the breath
that held time still,
slipping into her chest,
her heart a wistful drumbeat.

Paris is so beautiful, that it’s emotional,
like the red tile roofs of Rome,
or the Kenroku-en gardens of Japan.

It’s a relatively large world.
Whenever you can fly over an ocean
you feel limitless, and godly,
like the world is there for you, on demand.

Speaking of God-like views, I’m headed
to Lisa’s (parents) Manhattan highrise again
this year for Thanksgiving—six, very-long days
from today—and I have to wait—but I can’t wait.

I’m starting to stuff things into my bag, like a turkey.
There are so many holiday things to do in Manhattan.
Things that invariably whip you up for a sparkly Christmas.
But these are only commercial attractions—planned distractions.

One frosty November-break morning, two years ago,
a tide of clouds had rolled in, like a trillion tons of cotton
candy had been dumped on New York city, overnight,
filling it up to the 42nd floor. It glistened there, below us,
in the klieg-bright sun, like Tiffany diamonds on cotton.

So, imagine that, then add a flock of geese, in military-like
v-formation flying just at the crest of the glitter, like dolphins
hopping in and out of the waves, as they passed above the
insignificant works of man. It took my breath away.

So, naturally I grabbed for my fancy phone with its super-duper,
high-res camera. The snaps did the glorious scene poor justice—
the majestic, wild geese came out as dots on glare.

I’m watching things carefully this year, not just the multicolor, cachet, window displays on Fifth Avenue and the decorations at the Chelsea Market (where Oreos were invented). I’m going to capture this year
—every intense, emotional second—with that most unreliable, 3D
gadget of all—Memory.
.
.
A song for this:
Holiday Road by Lindsey Buckingham

J'ai presque peur, en vérité,
Tant je sens ma vie enlacée
À la radieuse pensée
Qui m'a pris l'âme l'autre été,

Tant votre image, à jamais chère,
Habite en ce coeur tout à vous,
Mon cœur uniquement jaloux
De vous aimer et de vous plaire ;

Et je tremble, pardonnez-moi
D'aussi franchement vous le dire,
À penser qu'un mot, un sourire
De vous est désormais ma loi,

Et qu'il vous suffirait d'un geste.
D'une parole ou d'un clin d'oeil,
Pour mettre tout mon être en deuil
De son illusion céleste.

Mais plutôt je ne veux vous voir,
L'avenir dût-il m'être sombre
Et fécond en peines sans nombre,
Qu'à travers un immense espoir,

Plongé dans ce bonheur suprême
De me dire encore et toujours,
En dépit des mornes retours,
Que je vous aime, que je t'aime !