I search for the arms
of strangers,
of friends,
of my family.

People pass by me
and their eyes drop
to my arms
before they meet
my face again.

They found a woman's body
hands, feet and face
burned. Naked
tossed into the woods.

Her killer
still unidentified.

They asked for tips.
She struggled
they said,
her violator may have been wounded.
Scratches and bruises may still be visible
on the forearms of her attacker.

So I find myself
staring down
at the pale arms
of men,
of the unkempt elderly man at Honey Farms,
of the teenage gas attendant who never quite
meets my eyes,
but also
at the father of my daughter's afternoon playdate,
the teenage sons of my neighbors
and at an evening barbecue, my own father,
questioning against doubt
what they are capable of.

And when I am alone,
even though I know,
in the mornings
I look down
at my own arms
unmarked.

And still, I check
twice.

wake late on wednesday,

remember your fathers’ mirror.



know that when all is mud and sundries,

it can be washed clean, clean as babies are.



that brings us back to chairs, that hold fear,

secrets, yet we are lucky in that



we have paid work, and he is not in

attendance.



these are old words.



sbm.

my body
is still my body
even after
you have left your fingerprints
behind

It was meant to be-
I was meant to be yours
Pride was never going to be our ally,
For we would thirst for each
other sans all ego,
You- like the barren earth,
Me- like the desperate raindrop,
One, in dire need of a quencher,
The other, homeless, searching for shelter,
We were meant to pine for unison,
We were meant to wander
without lover to hold our hand
so together we could get lost,
and find ourselves.
It was meant to be-
Me needing you,
You needing me,
To live, to breathe, to matter,
to *be

Glorious suffering,
Born among the mysterious poor,
Shredding darkness with tiny
Bits of light that illuminate minutes,
The crests of moments, colorful,
Spreading across a grateful soul,
A manifestation of grace in poverty,
Streets of the nocturnal
that disperse into industrial days
Where they sweat the blood
And honor their young,
The poor have secret places
Gathering in the heart,
A rhythmic harmony in the simplicity,
They hear the birds,
Embrace the wind
And kiss the sorrows goodnight.

at three a.m.
your breath should be
rounded
rising and falling
peacefully
calmly

like waves on a
smooth beach
but now everything
has fragmented
pixilated and
deconstructed.

your breath is being
dragged through your
lungs in triangles
half shapes without
softly curved edges or
serenity of form

gasps of air so
sharp they could
slit your own
dry throat
from the
inside.

and tears
so cold you
wonder if they're
shards of glass.

please
the next time
your body
becomes a vandal
against the windowpanes
of your mind

please
oh please
remember that
deteriorating
stained glass
can be taken down
from rose windows
by a master artist
and restored
pane by pane
each inch of leading
one at a time.

but repairing
is a process
and a process
takes time.

Do I love you??
Why are you asking me this??
Do I love you??
I love the things you say.
I love the things you do.
But do I love you??
Sometimes I think I do.
Sometimes I tell myself
To just accept my love for you,
To give myself permission to fall deeply in love.
To allow myself happiness for a change,
And to sink into something beautiful.
Yet other times, I find myself thinking
That perhaps I am just lonely.
Perhaps I just miss you.
Perhaps it is just nice to have someone to talk to.
Perhaps it is the fact
That every time we speak
It is three in the morning,
And deny it all you want,
But you know **** well that that makes a difference.
Perhaps I just love the nostalgia from when we were kids.
I do love it.
I love the memories.
I love those years.
I love the feelings they left behind.
But do I love you??
Do I love you??
Oh darling.
Ask me no questions,
And I tell you no lies.