grateful                  life      
Be                 an/a                   well of
    constant is        infinite

the full moon is a fresh cut catalina
mariposa lily that you placed in a vase
next to your virgencita de guadalupe
(the one you hung by my little bed, I'd yell
when you'd ask me to dust off stuff)

in the childhood  blanket of my dreams, the inquiry glittered

Just appreciate your youth
go wear silly & funky stuff, cut
your hair ,change your hand writing
go for a new pair of shoes
Dang, pick a favorite new color every week
until you cycle through the rainbow
and then do it again
change what you think young is
Pull of the masking tape that says 20, clean off the sharpie lines that read 40, laugh at the fact that next it you wrote 60, baby head for the jugular and once and for all liberate yourself, no age is the right age
for feeling youthful and fully alive
no age comes with requirements

When my mother plays foreigner, I know she is sitting on the carpet playing tracks  pensive or standing by the stereo alone dancing in the living room like I would find her alone and eyes closed. Sometimes drifting into the kitchen for a drink. Which in my mothers case is lemonade or manzanilla tea because she doesn’t “drink”. Today, within the song she picked and shared,  I saw her at the precipice of heartbreak as I have been many times.I saw her palms and her eyes in my own face reflecting off my hand phone’s screen as it auto locked.

There are two boughs but only one
below the water bending, breaking against the overflown river’s current -its bark moist. His actions raining down drowning him. The lifebuoy are his roots growing amongst  surrounded in the dark soil. It’s absence of light propelling him to grow.

First he pretends not see Lily. Then, she comes near. And he says “Away Lily”
“Shoo Lily” and she responds with calm “ but you howled so I came”. He pauses tucking his fangs

I see the outline of the milk gallon carried - domestic errands-
in her left hand that holds a black plastic bag. Her body is over tilting
like the stem of a flower to the right side to compensate for the weight carried, for the age and the toll of years on her body where canyons are scattered and her short black hair has thinned as does everyone’s time on earth

I feel the weight too, as the ripples of a pebble
tossed in a pond within my heart,
and I wish to carry her bag but I am turned down

The collar of her shirt red rose petals tilting outwards still fragrant and beautiful to watch slowly descend the haebangchon hills