Downstairs my brother
quietly plays the keyboard
its voice dances
through the floorboards
into my bed, where it
pushes me from slumber

An unexpected nap
I wake up with a novel
held to me like a baby, suddenly
remembering how my eyes became
too heavy to finish the chapter -
even accidentally I become exhausted
closing things before I finish them

I have tried asking my anger
to give back my ability
to be open and to love -
she guards them more

she pushes them into
the lacuna that is my heart -
that space that accepts only
my blood and breath
and even still, rhythmically spits them out

Sixteen brave years later
I am still getting paint
on the carpet - of course
a different carpet, newer paints
my hands no longer my only paint brush
my hands still not always clean

Twelve tranquil years later
the walls of my bedroom are still
dressed up in paintings and photos -
not all of their subjects
still living

Somewhere in my parents basement is
a box full of kindergarten stories
bubbly letters, chewed crayons, innocence -
somewhere in their basement, but
everything down there is covered in dust

How lovely
the gardener thought, planting
the rose and the daisy
next to each other

So they grew
spring to summer - shared
the sun and the rain

The rose kept distance, aware
of the damage her thorns could bring
The daisy kept distance, hiding
her petals love and love-me-not fortunes

Came the autumn with its breeze
the flowers intertwined roots
to keep warm - with no distance
now they struggled to share
the sun and the rain

So an agreement became
the rose basked in the sun
the daisy drank the rain

Came spring, parched or drowned
neither was able to grow again

She knows
concrete – not the soft earth
of late April, finally thawing

She knows
the carefully groomed trees
decorating the sidewalk - not
a garden tousled with wind
savoring its first sip of sun

She knows not
fresh air or quiet - but
when the clouds
become heavy and burst

her bones ache
her bones know

From downstairs there are heavy sobs –
from my bed arms length away,
hushed purrs

Before he goes
to sleep, he kneads the blankets –
I lie still, watching perfect
little paws making
their way to comfort but
            -- there is no way

to apologize
for scruffing his neck
scolding him for the death
of a snake who was only
hiding in its cage

to forgive
him for tearing apart
countless carpets, posters,
skin from the back of my hands
and now the heart of that woman downstairs
               --there is no way

to say cancer
or goodbye
without cringing

chai tea
French film
two breathing bundles of orange fur
cold hardwood floor
cracked vanilla-scented candle
unwashed carrot
lounge pants
dry lips

comfortable solitude
interrupted

with the
terrifying desire
for his
presence

At the grocery store
each aisle becomes
an obstacle:
will-power
             control
                     weakness


When I reach the
chips-cookies-crackers
I hold my breath
      walk fast
                     eyes down


and escape to the produce section
unscathed -but I never
stop  thinking about
red velvet or
       peanut butter
                            Oreos


Finally check out
"is this all today, ma'm"
a tomato
            yogurt
                      asparagus


"no, I forgot something"
run for the oreos
       trade in dignitity
                     eating in the car

worth it.