who took away your softness
and made you feel
the harshness of the ocean?

who took your tide away?

your lips tasted of salt once.
but the blue dye of your
ocean has begun to fade.

you were then,
so plump and mighty.
but today you lie flat
in the shallowest of
water.

tangled in the algae,
gathered by
your fingers.

i built you;
i melted your butter,
wore your hair for you,
turned your eyes forward
so you might see the goodness too

i held you
when you thought your
world was leaving.

and when you needed me,
i built you.


but now you make what i made
for you.
i showed you how to sow your dreams
how to hide them under your jacket
until you were ready.
i held you for so long
until i felt myself collapsing.




i remember my favourite day well:
i wasn't with you.
and while you were praising those below you
i was floating on the water

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

time; can you hold slowly for me,
i find that i can't unravel myself
these days.


all i can think of is my old home by the river,
on the stone-lined hill
by the church


(i've spent three years here with you,
from that first breath and then dive right in to you.
but i was not ready, and it never felt the same)

and i only crave a time when i savoured everything.
a slow time
alone
in my old apartment.
with her wood floors
and high ceilings
and a window that opened like a guillotine
onto the balcony
with my white cast iron furniture
where the rain would collect
and the sun would hit me in the morning,
and i'd wake to it.
and september would be my favourite month,
because of the leaves, not because of your birthday.
and coffee would be my ritual
and i didn't have tv
and i had my records
and places for things
and my plants would sit by my window
and i'd draw there
and sing
and cook
i wouldn't order food, i'd walk to the grocers
i'd work out in my living room
watch movies on my terribly old tv, on a dvd player
i'd watch tv shows on repeat
and i loved it


and i was alone.
and i loved it.

how i spent these years without you
i will never know.

your kindness lowered
my shoulders
and i could finally breathe in freedom.
i could drench myself in your eyes,
soak and unfurl.
my whole heart is here now.  

i dried flowers from my chest
until i bloomed violets
and emerged a meadow.

i crossed through your arches
where you held me
with your eyes,

suspended,
to float.

i climbed iron stairs
i hung thyme in doors
and cast shadows into your living room.

i hung branches from my wrists
because i wanted you to see me.
i told them:

“i see everything

all the time”.

they didn't believe me but
i know you see it
all too.

i slowed down my music
so they could hear it
but you heard it all so loud.

i wiped off my lips
and ate bitter
leaves of anise
just so i could feel a pulse on my tongue.

i hung branches from my arms
so i could feel the soil on me


i felt new again when you brought me there;


its like i went upstream
   like i fell through walls
   like i became a woman



i could only see my eyes
in yours,
and i don't think i can breathe again


(you’re back and everything that i lost
and was brought home again).

i'll eat your cherries
that stain my teeth
when you offer them
as forgiveness

the last time i felt you
snow covered the mountains
and i was lost somewhere between
home and a river.

i almost ran from you.
across the sea and to a dreary
london.
i found the sunlight there.
even mid-december would have felt more
like home than there with you.
the day i felt you leave me,
you let me.


no river of yours can take me home.
you will never carve your path in mine
i am stronger than even your ocean

you're made of mist and you don't know it

to unravel myself from these winter burrows
i might need to warm my chest with my own sun.
they call on night sometimes,
how well do you know it.

(how much longer can you go
without seeing your homeland?)
your memories are fading too quickly for you


that was your life once!


to stay here now means forever.
you've wrapped me up in dark blankets
ravelled me, cupped me into your body
but you are my enemy
your warmth is not a kind gesture


i know that so well!


i'm beginning to miss my ocean.
i've sent my pride to the sea so long ago
and now she's there floating in the water,
waiting for me.


you will never be the saint you see.
(i know that so well)
my ancient mothers can even feel
their ancient recipes crumbling, waiting for my consumption. so i need to do more with my hands.


ancient mother, teach me how to mend.

how to tend to a heart tenderly, how to love.
i want to love
i want to feel
i want to move
i want to breathe
i want to sigh
i want to spin
i want to drive
i want to cry and mend and love and move and breathe

holy mother-
do you see her through the window like i do?

please, can you feed her eyes and her mouth for me before she forgets
how to

resilience is built in yellow
golden stars against organza.
my resilience was bred in me
blood tinged gold by stars.  


(you've left my heart too many times
for me to trust you)


and like the cold of january i fought you.
i faced your burdensome eyes
and walked along frozen streets against you
just to feel
the resilience you offered me.
through fight,
nails and knuckles and your cold days
i fought
until I knew this was
how I would leave

you were built to part the ocean

with your golden skin
you stopped walls from crumbling
and there, under this ancient bridge
you understood me.

i was drawn slowly through your tides
but i wanted to fold into your ocean,
and you came back to me:

on a shimmer moon
as a black hopeful rose,
in dreams.

you were the softer one.
and i only wanted to
melt into your ocean.

you came back to me in my dreams

and with your smile
like the sea and the canal
      my whole body opened

which layer would you take away
to mold yourself now
to stop your shoulders from rounding
to stop yourself from losing
your heart.

which year would you burn,
who would you have slept with,
tied legs and arms with
in linens

which piece would you move. who
would you have loved harder
if you had the heart
and weren't bound this way

i called to you from across the river
through the fog while you were catching
salmon.

i have always called to you

but you were a ghost;
A constant memory
That molded me.

You were always a good one
but it was hard for me to find
And I searched in the creeks and the valleys
And the mountains and the pines
And under the moon
And under your palms
And into your heart and through your eyes


and when by the river I found you.

my voice broke and echoed
over the mounds,
over the rush of the river
And on through the whistle of the tall grass,

And always

              you stayed just a ghost to me. Ive worked so hard to find you. Come back to me.

Again!

you've slipped
into my eyes
slowly, like the comfort
of a soft house
like the ripple of a slow river
Like the warmth of a lovers back
Again!

I felt your eyes on me
For the first time
I noticed how deep they are.
I swear I felt you linger

Longer, as
You called on me
To close your rooms
And i felt myself smiling
Again! I felt you smiling


(I wish I was always more to you than this)

you know of blood as thick as honey,
that turns to crystal as it dries
tame me with tender, melt me
with kindness
let me feel that i'm more than

i find i don’t cry often

and when I do

my ancestors cry with me.

i weep with so many memories



like i’ve finally learned all the reasons why

It's seems like I've held you for 100 years

I've bred your fear
And multiplied you in the ways that you couldn’t.


It seems like I've left you
Your sweet, sad eyes always held more than just your innocence.
I've molded you
As a crutch would,
Determined you to speak
but you wouldn't.
i thought i could guide you through my motions
But you were never fully there
Your rhythm was flat
you could never speak out of your imaginary line


You've never had my electric everything and I can’t stay so humble

anymore

you are made up of moon;

you swell with pride when the waves
expose where the softest stones lie

i paint the kitchen just so i can see it again.


i wonder if the lemons on her branches still grow.
and what happened to the dust from the rooms below,
they used to be so empty.


they only held
the beds and dressers
and i can't help
but wonder if those were even real,
and what did they once hold of the
sisters and daughters,
and a son.


i know the bed frame was hollow
and you'd hide jewels in there,
of all the stories i've been told.



i know how the kitchen wore herself
how pretty she sat against the white
stuccoed wall.
how the window framed itself so that the kitchen shone,
through the branches of the lemon tree, at dusk.
black shutters, an eggshell blue enamel sink, a terrace with cast iron railings,
the terrazzo floors.



in our summers there we'd lay out a mattress and sleep outside with the mosquitos
in the mornings, we’d rise just in time to watch the sun creep over the church on the horizon.


its the saddest magic i've ever known.

we walked into a wall of stale air conditioning
and lingering cigar smoke.
the only colour came from a
potted hibiscus flower planted in the foyer.
standing impatiently on sunken, stained white marble floors.
we greeted a teller.
a banker, a suit


we didn't care why we were there,

we just knew what the heat meant
and that there was an ocean outside.

just like you, i held the hands of the sad ones.


guided them through tired mazes and masses
to
find their magic.


what's the good in being blissful when you're oblivious




these men. these men
hold so much more than you
(how can i raise a man
to see magic?)

it will take another lifetime out of me.



you are made of slate and not a kinder rock
you don't settle, and blend, and bend with me.

you make this so hard

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.

it's so easy how i fold to you,
like silk melting over me.
you smell like your mouth and
feel like an ocean.


i can't begin to feel you
you hold my neck and call me a
goddess
you cup my ears and tell me
you've begged for me
i don't believe you. i don't know you yet

you kissed me and i didn't kiss you back

your beast emerged so fluidly
your rage
your rage was green
until i would bend for you
until you turned me so hollow.

slowly you carved at me with
an olive spoon
a smooth edge over my smooth body
how could you
slowly etch me out like that

your incapable beast devoured only my flesh


oh my god. i emerged from my own freedom

oh how i adored you.



was it your back once?
how your muscles  met your bones
how your forearms moved
was it your hands? how much they held of me.

your fingers used to be so strong
now all i see is skin
the thinness of you



i'm sorry i disappointed you
i can tell you never planned for my love.
you never devoured me
you looked past me to meet my face
kissing me only with your lips
(when i was missing your body and your breath)

-untitled

let me touch all of you
slowly
until you’re mine.
until i can touch your back like i used to,
and your hair
and your ears
and your jaw
and your lips
slowly I’ll get to know you again.

how you move;
alone,
and with me.

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)

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

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.

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.

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.

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

the ocean would warm us. we watched her waves
embrace the shore where sea urchins lay.
she was deep red coral, and salt-dried,
hiding ***** in her divots.
her rocks underfoot were green and
mossy. long and neon strands of algae.
the restaurants along the streets
were full of golden people,
dusty with sand and dried salt.
calamari and flour frying.
the early evening sunsets,
like glass on water. the blend to night
goes unnoticed. motorcycles
amplified at night.
we were young then
when we took our grandmother
by the hand, crossed the street
to the ice cream stand.
she didn't speak our language
and some words we missed in hers.
you'll never know a shock of hearing her speak out of her own tongue.
for years we were lost from each other. i wish i had known all along
that she had learned to speak to us.
i wish i did the same

one thing i noticed was the
luggage on the second floor. no
one else lived there with her. no
one else climbed those stairs. she
was surrounded with the quiet of
her home. untouched rooms. the
dampness felt even then in the dry
heat. in one room on top of an armoir
was a quiet, muted-blue suitcase. empty
or not, it's contents moved me (when was the
last time it was used). i knew vaguely of her family
but i couldn't tell you when the last time she saw them was.
how her routine melted into theirs. i don't even remember the drive
to her home, but i remember the heat and the time we sat huddled in the car with all of our luggage. we had never seen a place like this before. i had to reorientate myself into her home. dry hay lay on the ground floor of her main room. her kitchen was damp and dark. everything was green outside. her farm surrounded her. her chickens welcomed us from inside her kitchen, huddled under unused stairs. we fed her goats by hand. the baby one with a bottle. the cats we didn't touch. she fed us ripe tomatoes and olive oil and bread. we drank lemonade. she broke open a watermelon. my mother was so young then, but she spoke with so much clarity and kindness. her two daughters, herself, and this woman she had never met, but felt the world of.

hungry heart
sore eyes
your hands
are like turpentine
you've wiped away the
years i've made,
the work of my mother
you'll make a home
in another,
you feed
to devour
what's missing from
your heart.
your scabs heal too
fast for you to know
what   you
did wrong in the first
place

i want to write to all my lovers;



my old ones who molded me
my old ones who held my body
as if it were an emerald.


there was something you all saw in me that i’m looking for now.
there was something so grand about me then,
so intense and open,
where i’d blossom at everything.
when i was a true woman
and i knew everything about me.

i wanted to share myself with all of you.



from you I learned how to move.
I learned security in ***
I learned of not begging for forgiveness,
but only of being.


from you I learned not to rush.
i’d slow down with you
we’d listen to music and
sit together on my balcony with a cigarette.


from you I learned to not be so conncected
i learned intensity and friendship
and that detaching
is healthy
    sometimes.


from you I learned to be with someone different.
i left you wild for me
you liked me too much.
im sorry.


from you I learned to follow my instincts
to devour and to consume
to dance and kiss
we were so similar


from you, again, i learned about a stable heart. you were so determined. you were so close to being the one.



thank you thank you thank you for guiding me.

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

who would you have been
with a rage of good and doing?

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

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.

i used to mark your bread for you.
from red flour, a rhythm
of tuck in and roll.
i'd never been built like that
before
i formed bread like you taught me
but i formed myself first
now it's only found through
a lavender mist as
each day passes quietly
that i remember chalk on my hands.
dust from boards and dust from bread
maybe my cure is bread itself
to form it again and give it a name
like mine.

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.

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

you taste like a garden
bright, like basil
so your scent stains
my fingers,
and when I pluck you
you infuse my palms.
you remind me of summers
100 years ago
and still you smell like you always have
you've sat by my sink
and by my grandmother's window.
grown countless times
from clay pots filled richly.
i've muddled you,
pulsed you
blended, baked
you've filled my home
my skin,
but i can't find myself in you.
how, when you've been here with me for
Years and years and years

I should know myself by now
You've been with me all the while.

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

when that soul you knew
becomes just a face again
that's when you know
you've forgotten

what i learned from you:


how to burn your family
how to pierce hearts with hot needles
how to dull the emerald
glass in the magic
ones  


i learned how to toss hope
into the ocean
and watch as tides
billow over fearful eyes.


i learned how to sever,
to cut clean lines from a muddled heart,
how to scrape open old wounds,
bring dirt into
old homes


i learned how to pick
at white blossoms,
**** out their sweetness


how to turn blindly to hate
as if it was easier. and

in the end i learned how to hate.
a strong chest
filled with it
fixated with it
bones that would leak of it.


but i didn't hate those
who built homes strongly.
who looked into eyes like yours
and saw freedom.


in the end
i hated  your heart,
your fear
your blindness.
in the end i hated your
dismissals  
your cruelty.

in the end what i learned from you was
how to hate
you

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.