one day i held hands with you
and then one day i didn't.

just like that i forgot
the way you smell


how you fold your clothes

how you go to sleep at night

i forgot your routine
how you shift

i've lost your sight.
just like that i lost your voice
i used to live with you

inside you
beside you
entwined, wrapped
our mother soothed us
with her songs
her tongue on our eye
she held us both
so we didn't need to
hold ourselves


we lived off of memories
moulded new ones, fostered the
old
bookcases kept full of books we wanted to re-read but never did.

we watched her stir pots
and build bread
food was our religion,
the ritual of our childhood.

and just like that
i left you.
you left me

we became bonded by distance
i've been searching for a way back home to you.

i hear your silver
i know i'm home
your hands were the colour
of pomegranate peels
and your nails
were a dark amber
i see their tremble
i know their worry
i know it's a gentle worry
a migraine of substance
a blossom of wisdom
that won't let me be
less than

the window
the kitchen
the tree
the lemon
the honey
the water
the secrets
the house
the dust
the war
the war
the war.

my father's home
the greyed blue tile of
the bathroom wall
and a caged pendant light,
a rusted mirror,
a rusted couch. and
only boxes were left.
the schoolboy,
his home

all that he told me of friendship
and of mountains climbed
all that he told me of kindness
and neighbours
and plastic tablecloths
and pastries made
and of the city
the new town
the village on the mountain
the struggle and the love
then came life.

then.
came home.

you turn to light like the
darkness does,
slowly.
give it time to turn to honey

clay surrounded you
until your bones were terra cotta.

your body dressed
only in windows, and trees brushed the ocean from outside.
you were raised by sunsets
And away from the fire
So you have a coolness to your
body.
And the city was your soul.


inside, like your city, you are made
of clay.
your bones are like rust, but only
coloured that way;
you still have movement to your body.

you don't walk you sway, a dance down the road of madrid.

one day my ocean will drown you

one day you will drink honey

from my palms

you'll trust me with your tongue

you'll want me to speak for you

under white sheets
for hours there i'll hold you



i'm still not soothed.

your hands don't match

your body

i don't see a soul in you


you can be soft,

but you are a statue of gold

a skyscapper

that reaches only as far as the city

there's nothing here that soothes

you either

we were raised in a silver home.
a bazaar built up
in warmth
in superstitions
in plastic nails
and velvet couches.
with instruments on walls
and carpets
on ceilings. sundays
were for family.
lace tablecloths layered with
lamb,   oil,   dandelions.
the ritual of fire and a prayer with oil.
a light touch on the forehead
from my grandmother's hand.
to lift a curse that can only be
broken by a man
taught by a
woman
filtered through
ancient tongues were about to lose.
i just want to bring her jasmine home;
let it seep into
my doorways
too.
her home's bones
smell of it
how she watches it bloom
at night.
as a child you'd filter through
the white bulbs looking for
the fattest to ****
dry.
take me home
where the jasmine grows
in warm soil, in barrels, in warm village kitchens.


let her gift you with her heirlooms
see how she unfolds them from
their caskets.
how she left them to your hands.
i didn't understand their threads,
the white wool wrapped with thin red
lines,
but then she cried
and all her years
shook inside of her.

your wind battered me until
my hair knotted into
a pile of salt and twine
Upon my shoulders.


i used to kiss the sun.
followed her round for hours
now i'm forced into the
coolness of your rooms
a constant blow off
the sea that i can't seem to shake,
and now i can't see my sun.


tonight, surrounded by linen
my dress billows into the ocean;
like silk and paint and water


maybe i just missed the sun
the heat, the ocean, the tide.
maybe i just myself in the mirror
and on my search to find her
i found my bones
buried in a place i didn't know.
surrounded by a forest of pine
and charred wood.
a damp forest with sage and thyme.

you know nothing of worry
you're made of dark matter
and of static


i see a dark green
when i think of you
-it's speckled with
the fear (in red and brown)


i see a bright blue when i
think of you
but your worry is yellow
and your kindness is clear
and stars don't align with you
everything is
struggle and heavy
it's dark with you.

you're muddled and
you're empty
at the same time

what can i do to my mediterranean
blood to tame it for you
how can i tie up my thousand years
and strain it like you want me to.
why won't you let me bleed of
my ancestors
your gold is still too bright for me
and i need silver in my hands again

your thinness makes me feel
that you're not made of
leather,
that your hands are too soft,
that you can't understand the mud
and the ocean at your feet


your body was not made for mine.
you are 900 years behind my body,
and i'm not sure i can be your guide.

(your faint moon makes me want to
cry)

when i die pour me into the veins
of an olive tree
let me grow from pits and fruit
heat me with my oil
steam me with the sea
let me grow from ancient
bones
where i'll wait until you're ready
to be fed by my silver

three thousand years i lay
intact
no wonder i am magic.

you studied my legs
my arms
while i only saw my thinness,
my translucent wrists, my tapered
ankles
you saw my wonder
i could only paint your trees for
you.
i wouldn't dress for you but i would
throw rosemary to your fire
built you mountains out of yeast.
it wasn't anything like love
but it was trust
thank you for noticing,
i noticed it too

undo it for me.

undo me
from you.

slowly.
so you don't notice

slowly so i can heal.


undo you from me.
untie our limbs

separate the truth
from our hearts
finally.

i want to tell you all the time
  you were touched by magic.
you're the most magic that i know.

and i can only dream of you
and your blend of magic

but i just can't let myself.
i've missed it again by years

oh madrid,
i've missed the scent of you
your sanded brick and the way you
sink into the ocean
like the thoughts of all my mothers
(i feel myself melt into her
all the time).
and i can only trust the parallels of
our ages to be my guide.
where were you at 23, at 28?
what kind of money did you have
-were you happy?
you own none of that now
and i can't help but feel like
i'm wasting so much time.
oh mother, oh madrid
how did i do this to myself
i should have had a child by now.
i'm losing myself to time again.

i can't breathe when you smile. my
tongue escapes me. i can't breathe
when you smile. you take away my

mouth.

i   can't   breathe
when   you
smile  



now you've stolen my eyes
and i can only smile back
-a fool.


i feel new to me when i look
at you.

and i can only look at you
slowly.(through quiet eyes
to take
in your fullness)



-slowly, how i fell in love again
with your hands

let me barely know you

let me know only your surface
and your hard words.
let me know your bones
and the skin of your hands.
i see what you see
in the ocean.
i know of your parent's home,
how they made you.
layer, after layer, after layer, of good
let me barely know you
i feel you're just too large for me.
you're bigger than my ocean
you're a blue i can't name.
i feel like i miss you,
and i see you every day

we counted our mother's shoes
on the day that she left.

her silver rings hung on chains,
thin and silver too.

this was our home,
where she took off her
broken hands and
turned her glass
heart to dust.
she only floated when she left
so the wind and the sea could
carry her
her red wine and red body felt
heavy then.
a thick coat of honey on her tongue


what have you made of her, my
mother.
where did you keep her heart when you were
done with it.
what did you cover her eyes with?
you didn’t untie your tombs
from her when you threw
her into the ocean
why did she drown for you?


she mistook your hardness for understanding.
she mistook your attachment for trust
and you, so blind, led (let) her.