Not the moon itself, but the light that fell from it*
reflected off the papery wings of moths
I almost mistook for shooting stars.

“Surely that’s not the ending”
Lauren slurped her soda noisily
as the credits began to roll.
“Shirley doesn’t live here”
was my only reply.

Cars began moving backwards
in my window, while pebbles
hurled themselves toward my windshield
as if to say
“Don’t. You’re not ready for this”.

My heart that had jumped during
the movie explosions not 5 minutes
earlier, was now oddly still.
Quietly shouting its disapproval.

Lauren didn’t make a sound
when we passed the street to her house
nor when my tires left gravel
and began rolling on sand.

Nor did she make a sound
when my tires hit the water
coming in from the lake ahead
as the car plunged into
the black black depths
and I could no longer control
our descent.

A moth fluttered against my window
trapped, as the moonlight disappeared.
It looked nothing like a shooting star now.

“Surely this is unfair to the moth”
my heart tried.
“Surely doesn’t live here”.

It’s a special day to be born.
Today, the twin towers fell.
9/11 shall always be remembered.

Today a Sargent General took his last breath
while a child took their first.  
Two mothers cried.

Today Jesus died.
today He rose.
Remembered, the day
but not the date.

Today, you were born.
Today my smile stretched, luxurious
and the breeze tasted exotic
the hospital smelled like life
rather than the usual death.

Down the hall, I watch a small girl
shuffle down the hall, her hands
vacant and small. Her eyes were fogged over
she hadn’t realized her braid was coming undone.

Today it rained and a tsunami just hit Japan
tidal waves washed away countless lives.
Today someone is alone, with empty hands.
Today is your birthday.

When I was cleaning the toilet
I killed my angel
because I brushed her off my sleeve.
to be fair, the devil suffered a fall
as well, but he only dropped a few feet.

The porcelain surface gleamed
in the light cast by the single bulb
flickering valiantly to stay alight
like the little engine who could.

The bathroom was my place of refuge,
it seemed like the only place I received
some privacy whenever my parents were home.
I reverently removed my Superman wrist watch
and placed it on the sink alongside my vintage
Spiderman lunchbox complete with a thermos
and collapsible spoon.

Inside the thermos I had hidden a pack of razors
I swiped from Jim’s Hardware store; he was nearly
blind, but liked me because I always cleaned his yard.
I set the razors on the edge of the bathtub for a moment
and only looked at them.

When someone knocked on the door
I refused to answer.

I caught your attention
for the first line! Now I
throw in some literary
devices, rhetorical or
syntactical with special
care to keep the lines ba-
balanced and even. make
sure punctuation lines
up and rhyme the last
syllable.  time for a
different stanza?

Abstract word insert
here, connect to the
title and relate all the
connotations that mi-
might be associated
with my work of
beauty. Crap. I’m
running out of ideas.
Refer to dictionary:
it doesn’t help me.
What makes me sad.
Ah. there’s the final
touch.

My Grandma had a purse shaped like a cobbler.
It was Blackberry and soap with a good dose of thyme.
She kept it close to her side, but behind her
so as not to impede her graceful march.
At some point the original strap had been lost
and replaced with a cherry red confection
that swirled around her arm and latched
onto the top crust that is always the most crunchy.
A few buttons were picked up along the way
and dotted the top layer like ladybugs dancing.
The zipper was never fully shut and there was often
a receipt sticking out, or perhaps her pink comb
that waggled in the air like a tongue in delight.
It wasn’t a big purse; just enough to satisfy
a healthy craving but big enough to care
were you not to see it present at dinner.

I have almost forgotten the healthy craving,
the smell of Blackberries, and why the ladybugs
should ever want to dance.

Breathing life onto a cold clear surface
is what God can do, I think.
Mixing a swirling crescendo
of silhouettes upon a backdrop
of cars, streets, trees, people.

Exhale quickly, and draw quicker
life disappears before you finish
into the quagmire, the muck of the bend
temporary distraction for a transitory
exit.

Inhale quietly, don’t steal the heat
perspiration , steam, and fog
cover up each picture like
time-worn scabs,

but when the fog fades
the imprints stare back at you
a lumpy mesh of creation
without soul, without release
stuck in the drawing board.

With a whistle the beeper shrieks 6:45
once a day every day all today
blaring, beeping, beating
Stop! Breathe.

Steaming water hisses into the house
weighed down by romping kids
grabbing, grasping, gathering
always on the go.

I smother my day with febreeze,
and mix, stir, boil my life into simplicity
choking, gasping, breathing
Stop.
Breathe.
Go.

Coffins are actually rather comfortable
plush and velvety like your Grandmothers
white church gloves.

My brother looked comfortable
the coffin fit him like the tailored suit
we only got for this occasion.

Inside his jacket was a small pocket
our rag-tag stuffed sewn up elephant
rested there with my baby brother.

Our house felt desolate
things seemed out of place
unbalanced, the dinner table
was lopsided and there was
an empty space on my bed
the size of an elephant.

I used to swear I was born in the Shire
right next to Bilbo Baggins.

Not because of the allure of being a hobbit, their squat bodies and hairy feet.
The shire was refuge from the eye of the witch king.

I would rather be an elf like Legolas with a bow of rowan wood
Arrows fletched with swan feathers, twin gold inlaid swords, and eyes keener than a hawk.

My weapons in this world are a bleeding tongue and rusted teeth
Maggot-filled reasoning, an understanding that middle earth is no more.

The Shire never happened for a ******* child.
The witch king came and raised me proud.

Fantasy is all I have left.
What could I possibly have for you?

I tried to listen to everything she said.
I tried to keep every demand in my head.
Too bad she took away from me
everything except being lonely.

Armed with a smile, the cause of my tears
She was the best at augmenting my fears.
Learning to fight isn’t so hard.
Learning to submit will leave you scarred.

Building a wall was like Right or Wrong
Right until she said so, but it only lasted so long.
Sinner or saint, it didn’t really matter,
She could always take you on and leave you in tatters.

It’s so hard to hate that which you love
But love’s too abstract for anyone of the above.
If she had given me but one good thing to keep
Perhaps then I might now be able to weep.

She always tasted like chocolate
when I kissed her, my Lily-eyed little girl.
Barbie and I shared similar names:
Tour-Guide-Daddy
Kitchen-Cook-Daddy
Girly-Laugh-Daddy
“I-Love-You-Daddy.

Dress up was an inevitable responsibility,
I was a dutiful mannequin who never stopped smiling.
Explaining to the chief my forgotten pig tails at work
had her giggling right into my arms
My little Lily. She could babble faster than a brook
and skip faster than a stone

Angels don’t truly die.
Our Lazy Boy “Rocky Road” still smells like chocolate
The creek by my station speaks just like her.
Lilies are flowers for the saddest of occasions
though they won’t ever be ignored.
Dressing myself feels foreign and I occasionally indulge in pig tails.
I am still her mannequin but my smile is no more.

What is my mother like?
Perhaps she is a bespectacled story weaver
knitting tales that stretch the imagination.
That would explain my itch to write.
What if she is a food critic wielding a pen
dishing out opinions and parrying rebuttals.
That would explain my desire for food.
What if she is a state- of-the-art Neurologist  
stretching the frontier of the dream state.
That would explain my desire for sleep.

But what if she isn’t.

What if she sleeps all day, drinks sake all night,
doesn’t miss me, forgets to kiss her husband, doesn’t have a husband
needs her sons help, is throwing away another child.
One of my siblings.
How many sisters do I not know? How many brothers have slipped between the cracks?
My yellow mother
won’t ever know me.
I don’t want to know her.

If my face were on a milk carton, who might say they know me?
Family Trees were hell, but I got Bruce Lee for a dad.
Almond-shaped eyes and yellow skin don’t flow with a white name.

Heritage was anime and soy sauce, my attempt to grasp childhood.
Khakis and button downs smother a kimono;
good thing I knew my third cousin was Jackie Chan.

Exemplary English scores, mediocre math were my sentence,
the honorable ACT presiding. All rise for the boy with no history.
Science might prove otherwise but until then. . .

Orphans don’t have happy beginnings
the birds and the bees sit better with both parties in a normal family.
Paper can’t lie, but parents sure can.

Fantasy-cursed for eighteen years
until Truth finally came, the coward.

All rise for the boy with no history.
All rise for the ******* son.

White walls washed with winter
mingle with a breeze born from ocean spray
and wind sails.

There is a smell here. Familiar, unique.
It smells clean. There is a bugambilia tree
in the center with arms outstretched
like Moses a splash of pink
that pitter patters

through streets built by Dr. Seuss.
Delectable delights demand your senses
there is white on white, a deep white
of many coats with white doors and white
walls and white houses and white sand
and white wine and white people

next to the blue sea.

Remember:
That time you put a candle in an egg roll
told me “happy birthday” and you were the
only one singing. I was the only one listening.
Candle lit dinner.

Remember:
That woman we stumbled into
who created the world out of yarn and thread
we wanted the world, but she was asking too much
although not unkindly.

Remember:
“there’s nothing borin abo’ Texas daalin”
oh what was his name- Greenberg? Graham?
he had charm the way Indiana Jones has charm
“Write her a poem”
I tried.

Remember:
That monster bass I caught on a
right-handed pole while you read
Faith Seeking Understanding
snug under your sleeping bag and yellow
volleyball blanket all of it just the bait
but we had both been hooked by that time.

Remember:
What happened next?
the stars had a twinkle and the water had
a shimmer the moon had a glow
but not as much as you. I never told you
I was freezing that night.
I just had a V-neck
****** if I broke the moment though.
Some things are worth suffering through.

Remember:
When I lied to you
about being on vacation
while you were in Honduras
rescuing children who knew how to “**** dance”
lying may be a sin, but I think it made God smile
if not, the smile you had waiting could be sung about
for eternity.

Remember:
How we could argue.
Fights are ugly, but I was grotesque
words hit harder than my mother’s fist.
While it went on, words escaped, but the
ones that mattered I’m so sorry crept by unnoticed.

Remember:
The taste of “I Love You”
On your tongue, your lips.
Our unique flavor some parts fire and spice (you)
Some parts simmer and thyme (me)
or vice versa? Maybe a combination.

Remember:
Your goodnight.

Goodnight.

Sweet Dreams.

Sleep Well.

And Be Safe.