los vacíos en uñas
como pozos de alquitrán
roban el foco
de dedos delgados
hechos para tocar el piano

codos como el mío,
     como gotas de rocío,
      y como pulpa redonda —
    no conoces la pared ni la espada,
pero esas en hombros herniados.

y las alas, alas
como el día
que aletea
nubes mostazas
a través de un campo

envuelveme
en plumas
así que yo conozca
solaz soleado
siempre

permanece vigilia
encaramado arriba
en tormentas
transformadas y
contenidas dentro de
las cavernas vivas
del espectro.

if a woman were to wile
     and beguile me
it would be she--
she is ebola, burning hot and fast
                 replicating majesty
       without space or energy--
she is spirit in a short circuit
voltage and current--
       she aptly replaces
                 the schematics
copied down in physics.
            a girl of the Ganges--
               distance distracts
          and remembers little
       yet often still i pray to
    insulate her sparks, to
absorb each ionic mote
  of excess she discharges,
     wrap them in neutrino ribbons
        and save them under my vest
          for the birthdays still to come.

first light is cavernous,
ochre vivification for
the ruffled goose-down
sage squares

'neath which i seek
refuge in feign dreams,
pores peeled, wakeful,
like a deep-roving shark,

sedate half the brain
and keep vigil, open
every thirty minutes

to secure myself --
perpendicular,
swaddled,
taut.

there are fundamental rituals
with which we are inculcated
in the households of our heralds,  
our inheritance -- idiosyncrasies.

"the day begins when the bed is made."

i devoted nine nights
to avoiding nuestro cama.
i spent six siestas
preferring the loch ness futon

and three on the threshold
to the bathroom
because i couldn't always
bring myself back to face it.

now, just like mother says,
i make the bed upon first light
and la cama rests in a tight corner
on a frame piled high with pillows

like i'm filling up space

i keep my books cushioned
and my homework has become
a permanent fixture, sprawling,
embedded

i've remade my queen's cot
207 times in the last
18 days and regardless,
can't say i've started my day.

I've been waiting out these rainy days
with my head down
and my ears waiting eagerly for your call

I had my own whimsical hopes about you
and how maybe we could be
because I liked the way you don't say much
and how you only smile if someone actually deserves it
and when you sit alone in the farthest corner of the gardens
because it's exactly where you wished to be

I was captivated by your mystery
and the possibilities I had told myself were more than a good chance
My hopes built higher after you mentioned one evening alone together
they peaked, and pointed to a plateau of so much fantasy I could finally see clearly

There is always a caveat in these situations
and mine starts with a but,
but, you rarely look at me when I speak
but, you never even held my hand
but, you never ask about me
but, I can hardly get a word in when we're alone
but, I can't be with someone who doesn't value me

I've spent my entire life building up fantastical stories and telling myself that boys liked me because it was the only way that I could feel like I was worth something.
My main objective for as long as I can remember has been changing myself to make it easier for people to receive me,
but i'm not a ******* package waiting to be delivered to price charming's doorstep just so he can open me up, use me, and throw me aside.
No longer will I pretend that I am not a whole being.
The parts of me that are not soft and pink are still worth something.
I have baggage and rough patches but I think those scars are beautiful.
My thoughts may come out scattered but they're still worth hearing,
and I cannot go chasing down the love of someone who doesn't care to understand that I am more than just a sum of a few pretty parts.

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

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"