I look for you in the bustle of changing seasons--
the promise of eternal life is stashed
in evergreen front-door wreaths,
but outside dims quiet. The winds,
without leaves to stand in their way,
whip and slap winter chill straight to my bones.
old piano melodies whisper the familiar
beat of tradition. Memories and expectations
of what should be the same, and what
should always be, drive my search
for you this season. Choppers on mute
race packs of starving bloodhounds
with their mouths sewn shut.
I am determined to find you.
To sneak up behind you in white dusk
and with blindfolds for hands,
and eyes tattooed red, I'll growl,
Surprise. Merry Christmas.

I cut into chicken parm, a massacre with fancy china.
A crusty napkin blots my eyes, wipes the juice
that drips from my mouth. Beyond the curtains,
car tires lead a small river from the rising puddles
on the concrete. Stupid ******* brain cells drawing pictures
in my mind; cats cradle between the memories and the now.
fourth of july neurons going crazy in my skull
spitting rain and crashing thunder down my cheeks.

Seaweed drapes down my back, cloaks
my shoulders like a thick leather cape.
Snip, snip. A piece for you. You don’t
like the way it salts your tongue
or slithers down your throat.
Maybe sesame dressing
or a cold mound of sushi
will make it more appetizing.
(nope)
That’s okay. I have plenty more.
But I reach down my spine to find
a hollowed out hole, straight through
my body, no longer masked
by my nights spent underwater.
I’m at the surface now and it’s clear
that I’ve been drowning all along.

i am the white noise of cicadas chirping
air conditioning chugging, a train on a track
but i don't want to be the sheep you count
i want to be the rising sun, the lawnmower,
the screeching birds that tear at your sheets
yelling wake up, wake up
we're running out of time

Bite a strawberry in June and try to tell me you can't taste color.
A quiet lapping sea sloshes pink foam over crunchy sand seeds.
Stare at watercolors--make eye contact and listen to the breeze.
Maybe rustling trees are symphonies in green. Kiss me,
watch my heartbeat pulse and quiver, bubble through my mouth;
racing, hiccuping out heat from my throat’s abyss.
Smell my hair, breathe the sugary bonfire billowing from every pore,
pine needle goosebumps that rise and fall in Redwood symmetry.
I'll visit your grave, dragging a Santa sack of rotting flowers in my brain,
and (pretend I don’t) feel and hear and smell and see everything
and nothing all at once.

i wonder when i will see a BMW as just a car
and not a haven--an earthy smelling
burnt orange cemetery for memories of road trips
with my feet on the dash, your disapproving glance
but the windows rolled too far down to care.
my skin seared in the summer sun, piling sandwich
upon iced coffee just to drive back to your house
and park in front of the TV. Picnics on the bench.
You sweating under the sunlight to see my smile.
New Haven train station, at early evening and
the middle of the night, sprinting with hands locked
toward the next adventure. Your hand off the shift
and on my leg. Trusting that we wouldn't crash
as we zipped through the woods late at night, eager
to crash and sleep the day away. Everything I've
pushed away to cope. Your broken tape player,
the heated seats cranked on my side without prompt.
Taking the long route for dinner on Whitney Ave.
Parking lot coffee dates and people-watching Sundays,
the day you drove to Montauk at sunrise to catch
the ferry while I slept by your side; the only time I've
ever seen you awake before dawn. Our movement
together; our bickering, the radio tuned to obscurities
blasting with open windows to see who noticed.
Hotel sleepovers in the Connecticut countryside, and
Rhode Island for the day. Car *** and Long Island nights
parked by the water, the humid heat in my hair,
salt and trees in my mouth. The sound of the locking
door, the key held clenched between your teeth.
The humming engine and your backwards hat perched.
I don't know which permeates my mind the most,
but when an m3 shows up in the rear view mirror
I blink back tears until it fades away.

and just as the last tear drop
was wrung out from the duct,
a drenched washcloth hung to dry,
she asked, “do you see a rainbow?”

beyond cumulonimbus and shattered fog
is a cotton candy lightning bolt
the visible spectrum reduced to an arch

but as the sun sets and the gold fades
to black, my water-logged dreams surge
waves of torment. i try to ride them in,
to tame the wild sea, but the undertow
swallows and spits me up
just another ocean tear, spilled upon the shore