black morning- the birds fall apart
beyond the curtain, forgetting their lines,
and the regret hangs around my neck
like a talisman.

the knives are sound asleep in their
wooden block and, alas,
the gas still warms the house.
yes, this is clarity pressing her fingers
to my temples and lifting the fever
of earthworms and giants.

your face still haunts me
but only in the dark womb of sleep,
that cruel temptress.
you come like a shadow and
I am dressed in black, patiently
waiting to consume you.

clarity comes upon awakening,
when I discover how easily the dirt
and grit of your smile
washes away.

c'est la vie,
I can stand on solid ground.

i've been building sentences
for you, because there are
too many words to keep them
stagnant and docile.

oh, words on melancholy smiles,
chipped porcelain and
sunlight dappled through your hair
like the sun herself had
kissed the crown of your head.

i've been writing you letters
inside of my head. little golden
pinpricks of love
seeping through my cells
because my body cannot hold
the very idea of loving you.

in those moments, i am liminal,
held tight by the arch of your spine,
the pads of your fingers,
the way that you held my name
in your mouth before
it rolled off of your tongue and
the smell of your skin
in a dark room, with only
the moon watching us
woefully, sweetly.

words like saccharine and
your name, slow like honey,
taste sweet enough
to make me cry.

i've been stuck on the idea
of loving you, loving me
and wringing my hands
over bad luck, mon petite chou.

and still, you close your eyes,
clasp your hands over your ears
and brush off my words like
dust or snowflakes or
unrequited love.

you glide across the floors
of my imagination with the
gait of a silverfish and
a name just as deceptive.

and i sweep you beneath
the rug or erase you
with a stamping of gilded feet
or bury you beneath heaps
of discarded memories
until your features fade
and you are nothing more
than a lost relic,

a watercolor portrait
too beautiful to keep.

stuffing stolen oxygen
into my secondhand bag,
and smiling up at the
butter sun;
the ancient groundskeeper says,
earth mama, you should be
doing pirouettes
in Santa Ana, stumbling
barefoot bright sidewalks
in Albuquerque.

I nod and get in my car
feel my soul twitch
and I am astounded that
the trees haven't
found me out
yet, that the lilies
haven't strangled me
in my sleep
yet.

maybe I’ve been here
too long too long
maybe I need to go
where the sun is
relentless..

1500 miles to Albuquerque

has spring arrived
already?
i brace myself
and wait-
boughs bent  and
naked.

but, there are no
fluttering cherry blossoms
here, nor golden
nightingales.

i brace myself against
promises of gods
and false prophets
shivering in the wind.

cede fortunae,
they say to me.

i was destined
for this.

the room is empty
as a smile, walls that stand
blank as eyes waiting for truth
as i fumble for stolen words
and like children they
spill from outstretched palms.
a gift to the gutters,
a gift to the gods
who laugh in my wake,
inviting me to whiten my bones
among them, among their
house of trees and their
all-knowing shadows.

landlocked words that sit
stagnant in my muscles,
whimpering in cold corners
and clamoring at whitewashed windows.
i want them,
not the labor, not the anesthetics,
but the small, pink-lipped
baby of them.

words like garbage, words
like paper Mache, or as
silent as both.
they are maddening, porcelain,
but they are mine to nurture,
mine to cure,
mine to hold.

you are not
really gone. i
say this to myself.
when the lights are
low and the music
is quiet, when the hum
of some distant furnace
is the loudest sound
that i can hear.

i still think of you
from time to
time; testing the wind
with your feet in the sand;
or striking notes like
the death of love
in the purple halo
of twilight on your
front steps.

i still reach for you
from time to time;
but my hands
return to me
empty.

i still miss you
from time to time,
but I cannot secrete
the venom from your
backward glances;
nor could I tell you how
our future shone with golden
strips of sunlight,
a pinpoint of it
dancing in your stratosphere.

so, i’m writing the future
in the corners of my mind
and convincing myself
that nothing is permanent;
and that one day, you
will return to me, with
the sun strapped to your back,
re-gifting that which had been
taken when you left me
smoldering in your wake.