so I brought my writer wife
(prominently pregnant)
to the hospital
and on her bed, she screamed:
"weren't" "hasn't" "couldn't" "shan't"
"aint" "hadn't" "you're" "isn't"
"aren't" "didn't" "wasn't"
"who's?" "what's?" "he's" "she's"

The doctors were confounded
and they turned to me and they said:
"What the hell is she doing?"

And I replied with double speed
and a violent sense of urgency:
*"Don't you know?
She's having contractions -
she's a writer"

long before light graced
beyond my sealed lids,
a gray lady sat sewing
squares, "for foundation."

her accent was like the
magenta strips with
which she bordered:
a boy needs foundation,
boundaries to teach him
his boundlessness, dirt
in which to sink his feet.

and unlike my foundational
quilt, linked so firmly to the earth,
she faded
first to rose, and then
to silver pink before
                                   dissipating
into dusted petal wither.

i'll meet her on the next go around.

my sixteenth was bitter-themed
and my parents gave me
a mexican blanket,
colored like mother,
aqueous aquamarine
and patterned like father,
those angular and triangular
movements;
woven just like theirs,
to give me rest and
haven on the roads
of my inevitable adventures.

and when i am eighteen
the women of my family
will meet with needles
and spools, and wool
to click-clack and chit-chat
over my adulthood -

and when it is done,
i will behold azure
like the heavens
entangled with warm tones
and spun prayers
to cocoon
in the chill of
carolina's coast

The Five train trails pass my balcony under dim
Fluorescent lights flickering beneath towering oaks
Canopying high above and yet,
Still below the placid night sky
Two small girls sing atop our concrete division in
Shapes of adorable keys about love and how they'll
Never leave
Whilst several men two slabs across
Discuss the gossip of their lives under, but yet within
Billows of smokey haze
While I write them out briefly in the cool breeze amongst
Plumes of misty clouds,
The moon dimly shimmering through their cloak.

The Five train right on time.

If only the world could always be as such.
People Living.
Just living.

A brief silence.

I close my eyes, the humming of airplanes over above the
Bellows of my thoughts, the thumping of my heart in sync
With the cricket's harp, and wonder if it's God I feel
When the richness of these particle like moments fill me
                                      
                         ­             The world feels content.
                                      Nature feels alive.
                                      Life feels at peace.

The Five train right on time, thumping along the tracks conjoined
With the night's serenade.
Sublime.

I sip my quiet through a cup of coffee, while
on the outside of my angular
bubble made of brick,
wood, and window panes, silent
cars drive by
throwing off with their motion, over-exposed
pieces of the sun
from their also angled bubble
bodies, reflected into the eyes of every passer-by,
bouncing back and forth between us.

think your worst thought

and throw it deep in the pines
to get caught on the vines

then go there at night
when the light of a bone
colored moon makes shadows
rattle and bite

and hold that thought

tight.

r ~ 9/11/14