I used to be
a difficult kid
when it came
to eating.
I didn’t
raid fridges
in quest
of food.
To ensure
my good
health,
my mother
fed me
spoonfuls
of bone pulp
on bunk beds.
She’d scoop
it out,
blowing air
to cool its fire,
then press it
into my
mouth
with the
quiet panic
only a mother
knows
fearful I’d turn
my head,
or spit
what she
believed
might
save me.

Nature depicts
abscission as the
beauty of life,
so why do I
call it detachment?

Though the
moonlight
doesn’t run
out,
and the sun
doesn’t choose
who it warms.
Still I keep
resisting
something
as if I’m
working
against the
earth. .

When I was a kid,
emotions were
monotonous.
A candy was
just a candy.
Happiness came
fast and full.
I didn’t wonder
who gave it,
or why.
I just smiled
and ate.
Now,
I think too much
about hearts,
about hands,
about faces,
about the things
people want
when they give.
Now, a candy feels
like a trap.
Love feels like a deal.
And the world?
Too heavy
for joy to be simple.

I am the
farthest
geese,
mingling
over
mountains
but when
my
emotions
descend,
I flatten
into a
plateau.

You already carry
enough to be believed,
Your heart tastes like
strawberries and
listens like a god.
Your blood keeps you
from rusting and  
clears cobwebs within.
Your bones keep
your daring steps
from stumbling.
Your eyes have
the power to soak
uncertainties.
Your skin lets
you love.
Your wit helps
you continue.

What more can
they ask of you?

A duo of
parrots
has been
fluttering
they’ve
made my
  room a stage.
Their wings
flap like
applause.
Everyone
calls it
sweet
I call it
performance.
I reject how
loud,
visible,
and simplistic
their love seems.
I don't like love
that performs in
daylight,
I want a love
that’s curtained
and cryptic.