i. this poem is not about that thursday afternoon
you spent holding me in your arms, swaying
back and forth in the middle of your bedroom
because i mentioned that no one understood me
and you told me you liked my dark hair and
my olive skin and the fact that i wrote poems about
confused teenagers in love and that i had a heart
that was just as confused as yours was

ii. we whispered sweet nothings to each other and
kissed under your navy blue duvet for two years
and the reason i still cry over that is because
you knew how much i detested dancing and that
i hated when my peas touched my potatoes and
that i never went to bed before two in the morning,
but you never learned that i am an iceberg

iii. i asked you to describe me and you failed
to mention that i'm afraid of the dark because
it reminds me of a sky without stars and that
my favorite song is skinny love by bon iver
because it reminds me of the relationship that
i shared with you and you never understood
why i liked sad things (it's because i like the
way rainy days and sleepless nights make
me feel something worth writing about)

iv. this poem is not about love or heartbreak
but it is about you, and i must admit that it
feels awkward to write about you without
feeling any ounce of admiration or hatred
pulsing through my tired veins. this poem
is not about me missing you, or how i wish
that you still thought about me, because i
am glad that i no longer float across your
mind whenever you watch a baseball game

v. you were like the titanic and our feelings
were the ocean that carried you closer to me.
you saw the surface of my being, consisting
of all the things you liked about me and the
things that you could put up with. but your
ignorance became too much and every
quality you failed to pay attention to came
crashing into you all at once and i
absolutely destroyed you and i don't know
whether to say i'm sorry or
you deserved this

As the stormy weather passes;
Shadowed waves along the bay.
The wind sweeps through the headland grasses,
And we breathe the violent day.

And violent days abound,
Where the sea and land collide.
And in every fishing town,
Lay the marks of those who’ve died.

They lay as stark white crosses;
Set within, green and grassy field.
And we that breathe tote the losses,
… And keep our thoughts concealed.

For what can man or woman say,
That will calm the hurt within?
For some that braved the sea today;
…. Have yet to come back in.

Ten souls are held in thrall,
By the dark and brooding seas.
And stark are the faces, one and all,
As we make our silent pleas.

Oh! Sailor set your canvas tight,
And make your actions sound.
See that the tiller is rigged alright,
And get ye homeward bound.

The church bell tolls a heavy toll,
And candles light, pane on pane.
Whilst desperate eyes search the rocky knoll,
Through high seas, and cur-sed rain.

Worried hands, wring worried hands,
And they wring out misery.
Wives fidget and spin their golden bands,
And make their silent plea.

Oh! Sailor set your canvas tight,
And make your actions sound.
See that the tiller is rigged alright,
And get ye homeward bound.

The rain sheets in across the bay,
It writhes in violent spree,
And we look anon in grim dismay
At the ferment of the sea.

And terrible it is to see that sight,
That holds fathers, sons, and lovers.
And hold the fear, that the sea just might,
Bear new crosses, ‘midst the others.

And in the silence of the rain,
As it dashes hopes upon the sea.
I walk with other souls in pain,
As we make our silent plea.

Oh, Sailor set your canvas tight,
And make your actions sound.
See that the tiller is rigged alright,
And get ye homeward bound.

The raging storm wreaks its worst,
Shadowed waves along the bay.
Our thoughts become bleak and cursed,
As we breathe the violent day.

And then a voice crisp and clear,
Shouts “Look ye to the lee”!
And there we spy the crew, so dear;
Of the good ship Karalee.

Oh, Sailor set your canvas tight,
And make your actions sound.
See that the tiller is rigged alright,
And get ye…


Homeward bound.

In a revered Tibetan tradition,
I read aloud to my father,
the dead are borne to mountains
and the bodies offered to vultures.

I show him the photographs
of a monk raising an ax,
a corpse chopped into pieces,
a skull crushed with a large rock.

As one we contemplate the birds,
the charnel ground, the bone dust
thick as smoke flying in the wind.
Our dark meditation comforts us.

I ask if he’d like me to carry him—
like a bundle of sticks on my back—
up a mountain road to a high meadow
and feed him to the tireless vultures.

"Yes," he says, raising a crooked finger,
"and remember to wield the ax with love."