Sleep deprived
the thief decides
to steal the twinkle
in her eyes.

Knowing that
verdant glow
that grows spring,
that emerald
green scene
behind nature.

Dulling and dimmer
the color loses its
vibrant glimmer
thinning till
pigments pass away
like a corpse’s
cold gray figure.

Fatigue is the villain,
stealer of vibrancy
or has it been misplaced,
the flush of life
that once painted
her angelic face?

Reality becomes
very numb
as she is struck dumb
then succumbs
to the joylessness
of a colorless
world.

What a weird wonderland
as Alice comes so close to see
the strange curiosity that is me,
an inverted reflection,
while I see negative space
filled by her body, face,
and the thoughts she traces
out for me.

I acknowledge
that life is not this
certain,
but needs
certain balance.

So, the introvert
comes out to play,
quick witted word games,
flowing faster
than a rapper’s
lyrics.

I am spitting wisdom
and she hears it.
The reapers beating
bares repeating
cause he is seeding
deep desire.

Larcenous lust,
pushing to touch,
so intrusive,

but I am consumed,
and engaged,
as I parlay
what we say
in conversation,
exchange said thoughts
for something caught
in my poetry.

I.
My son does not understand fear,
he is 3,
he thinks in color,
he believes in magic,
he says that our dog Smokey
controls the weather.

Watch him as he goes!
Jumping over cracks on sidewalks,
pretending to fly,
attempting to get near electric outlets
because he saw them spark once,
and fire,
fire is cool!

"Watch me Mommy!

watch me."

II.
Some days I stay in bed all day,
I tell everyone I am catching a cold,
a sinus infection,
another migraine again.

It is easier to lie than to explain,
that it is too difficult to shower,
to find an outfit, to brush my hair,
to make food,
to chew it.

Friends jokingly call me a hypochondriac,
my Mother thinks I am mellow dramatic,
My son asks me if I need my temperature checked.

It is too honest to say,
"I am fighting monsters, and they won today."
Who would believe me if I did?

We are taught since childhood
to not believe in the things
we can not see.

III.
The day we buried my Grandfather,
I wore my favorite gray dress,
I was scared to taint it
with such a sad memory,
but I was 8 months pregnant
and nothing else fit.

We threw dirt in a hole
as three strangers watched us grieve.
They stood with shovels ready to do their jobs,
ready to get home to their loved ones.  

All I could think about was how much
it aches to love anyone,
even in the good times, it aches.
Loss dances outside our window
like flames, waiting to engulf.

I vowed to protect my child
from any unnecessary pain,
I vowed to make him feel safe.

Now I fear I am the one
tainting him in gray.

IV.
Not every day is bad,
most days are nice, in fact,
some days are so good
that the bad ones seem
like distant memories.

On the good days I feel brave,
brave like my son;

I tickle his tummy and show him
which lights are stars, which are planets,
and tell him I love him, always,
no matter what.

Bread, avoacado,
bacon, lettuce, tomato.
Turkey, and the bread again.

A song that makes you feel nostalgic is playing in the grocery store
you pick through green apples, mushrooms, & cilantro,
absorbing sadness like a dry sponge in a soap bowl.

You wish to mourn, but not in front of strangers so
you carry this knot in your throat, like grocery bags, all the way home.

You've been so quiet for days and after a drink you feel like spilling,
You tell your brother that the moon smells like gunpowder and
about that thing you did in middle school that still makes you cringe.

your last cigarette has reached the filter.
You panic, you feel this is the only way anyone will listen.

There is a small town in Alaska being swallowed by the sea,
the article reads, “Villagers fight to save drowning city…”

You too fight a futile fight against the ocean;
You know the feeling of flailing toes in search of solid ground.

Whenever you get too scared you think about
hang drying, clean, white sheets in an open field.

You don't know why, but it always calms you.

Elliott reads aloud from some adventure book, I take over when his eyes are tired.
Luna is in the bath again, she’s a mermaid this week.
Jeremy works from home, his eyes dart back and forth, across computer screens.
If you weren’t watching the news, one could mistaken this merely as reverence for the mundane.
I turn off the news, and feel guilty for wanting to look away, I turn it back on again.
I did nothing to deserve the safety of my home, with the people I love.
I am reminded of the day the second Iraq war started,
we watched from our couch.
Black and white images of falling bombs flooding our screens,
our youngest brother weeping in my mother’s chest.
We all held him and assured him that it was happening somewhere far away,
that it was happening in someone else’s house, not our own.
I wanted to cry then, but I thought I was too old,
Sometimes I want to cry now, but I’m even older.
The neighbor’s dog howls all day long.
The kids run, laughing maniacally, from living-room,
to bedroom, and back again.
They are unencumbered by the chaos that remains unseen/unfelt in our home
I am grateful for that.

Grabbing on to the thin cigarette trees
we’d take the steep path down to the creek,
sat on that freckled stone while catching our breath,
we could hear trains in the distance,
you’d imitate them, the whistles, and hisses.
I’d throw my head back in laughter, and wait for an echo.
As a teen, you would imagine the trains arrived
to pick up the lucky, who found their way out.
I asked you if you ever considered
that maybe those trains brought the broken back home as well.
You didn’t understand then.
Today I imagine you, small suitcase, heavy heart,
on the train to inspect what is left of that beautiful, big, old house,
I see you mentally sorting through what remains;
Maybe the smooth rocks, plucked from the creek,
by a child who wanted nothing but to leave,
and today could not possibly come back home.
California is on fire.
the sky is blood orange,
the sky is Big Stick red,
the sky is end of the world blue.
The woman on the news informs me it’s fire season,
and we’ve yet to reach its peak.
I become increasingly annoyed
as she refers to herself as "on the frontlines"
while standing in the parking lot of a Wendy’s,
in heels, and a short dress,
knowing nothing of what you have lost.

This pandemic has given me free
license to engage in my unabashedly
introverted ways and not feel like
I’m a complete *******.  
In fact, I get to feel really good since
I’m still working, and I can justify
my nonexistent social life
by saying That I’m protecting my friends
by not going out and visiting them.

Pain is all around us.
Everyone wears its
hellish weight.

Some days they may smile
but other days you will see
the tears that stain faces plain,
as figures fall like drops of rain
succumbing to a tragic view.

Society will crumble
come crashing to ground,
and in the years to come
only ashes will be found.

The human doesn’t live here,
Emotions don’t appear clear.
Everything he is feeling,
is off like a robot alien.

Confusion is the normal.
Uncertainty, totally natural.
Calamity may come to me
but what he sees is destiny.

Every day he’s learning,
trying to understand,
why what he is feeling
makes him feel more
machine than man.

They never let you go.
They keep you encumbered
identified and numbered
classified and moving slow,

while a big bad beast barrels fast behind,
terrible trouble hunting to find
the tasty morsel that is you.

Sleep deprived you still try
to run and hide to survive.

But you left deep imprints,
so easy to track and that
was their sick intent.

Set up to be a sacrifice
so, they can stay alive,
you succumb
become cold and numb
then end up being
dinner for the dark thing
that was pursuing you
and every other human being.