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 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.

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)

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.

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

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)

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.

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.

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 only like me when I’m sleeping -
Where my body is there but quiet.
Where my words come out of my fingertips and onto the polished skin of your back.
Where I’m just a warm body
Soothing you
Pumping you with a pulse
Stretching your bones;
Your eyelids.
Helping you wax off your dye
Watching as you watch
the bathroom mirror - your reflection brushing its teeth, holding its nose; Piercing its eyes.
I will only take your worry.
One deep breath and
I will let it seep.
And I only scratch the surface, even after this lifetime.
If you can, just let me let me let me.
I’m not done here, come back.
Let me. Let me. Let me.
My words can now hold you. I promise.

I will do anything to grow old with you.

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

I want to write this out so i remember.



again, i am left to defend.
my guarded words against your flailing knives
i tell you all the time,
this is not how to fight.
we drive the rest of the way in silence.
I wont let you free this time.

_____

my silence upsets you.
you begin your tirade into absolute chaos.
i laugh at your dissolution
i can't help it,
i don't cry anymore.
how many times can i hear
that i am only here to annoy you.
that my kindness doesn't matter
to your solid, unforgiving bones.
i tried to make a home for you
time and time over.
i've cooked to your dreams, and cared for, and cleaned.
but again, i am left with only a dismissal,
a distain i've only felt by you.
i sleep on the couch more than my bed.
i don't want to feel you reach for me at night.

-you haven't apologized yet.
_____

this morning came the sorry.
an apology through text.
i would call that an empty one,
attempting to brush under
what you've done.
another rule is for me to forgive you,
another rule is to not talk to you at work.
but i don't,
and i don't.

today you can sit with my silence,
until you're home and i am ready.
to listen to your plea to forgive you
for the fifteen years you've put me through.

but that will never come
and i will just float through this world i've made for myself
in a gauzy dress
with my paintbrush and a palette,
and all my hours to myself.
but that will never come.
_______

i'll find myself again, in a distant year,
in another November's sun.
without child and without love
muttering "what have i done".

knowing this entire time,
you would do this to me.

i can't be the only one
to see the night flower blooming.
i tell you, and i doubt

you have ever tasted
the electric
      blend of mouth and neck
i cannot be the only one.

i open a window to let all the light in-
maybe that might move you
to feel the morning
with me.
i'm sorry, is this light too sharp
for you?
      because i need a longer light than that.


Oh, my heavy heart.
look how this does nothing for you.


then when the rain comes
i savour at the river,
at the street below.
there’s a stickiness here.
does the river move upstream tonight?
(was it doing that yesterday?)


          I get used to this silence from you
         but there's a change here
         this doesn't feel like May


i am forced to take in your shadows.
now all that's left there for me to sift through -
woven into my limbs, my eyes, my mouth.

where you've put this limit on yourself.           
where i know nothing more than to
absorb it.

i've come to learn
you can’t force away the dread in your eyes,
as you can’t take away these apathetic months
left here to shuffle through and define.

(it would all just be to try,
it wouldn’t be to feel).


      and thats not enough for me.




i've slowly uncurled my fingers
from your twine-y hair
and all of your questions.
Haven’t you noticed how?

this is my home
and
i want you to leave now.
i want you
to pack away your things,
take your flag and your cup and your dread.
i want you to leave your thoughts of me at the door.


those belong to me
and you are not welcome.
i need to take in this view alone


I’m alone in Delphi
I’m alone in Delphi
with the woman I’ve been forced to be.








(I’ll see you for the last time when the sun sets along the bends of your old home. The mounds of dirt and marble will crumble before I will ever come back. And I feel that would be nothing more than everything I need).

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

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

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

Last night I dreamt you grabbed me by my stomach
and held me there
my back was pressed so hard against you that I melted

And we walked like that together


that night I watched you from the window
and I waved
you waved your fire flag back
at me


And now every time you kiss me I crave you more.

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.

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

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.

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've lost your soul on me.
your heavy eyes
show no mercy anymore.
where does your evil come from?
seep, seep, seep.

gutted.

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

this time away from your good heart
has made me
appreciate the warmth of your neck.
here I am with you again,
reminded constantly
that I am always by the sea.

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 found it tangled in my fingers
like a wet strand of hair. It’s disgusting what you can do to me.

What do I do with it- and why do I chose to keep you.

Why is my only choice to wind you up like you’re twine.
Hoard you like I will be able to use you again for something.

When the time comes.
I’ll make a scarf out of you. Some jewellery. A bracelet.

I’ll wrap and twist and build and build.

Can I make you into a blanket. Can you keep me warm. And safe.

Will I find the end of this thread. What else lies here in my bed. Will there be more of this.

Will it be too much work. Do I have it in me. Can’t I just shelf you for later. I wish I can put the time in. As I have.

But you only have given me this one thread. I’ll have to wait a lifetime for the rest of it. As I have, as I will.

Somehow I’ve decided it’s worth it.

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

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

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

-untitled

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

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

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 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

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

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 are made up of moon;

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

Spend this Summer too between your fingers.
corn-gold, combed hair.
Only your stains were left painted on the sand,
where your body once stood like a Cypress.

But another time will come.
When the sea will postpone a crystal spring.
And the sea, the Morning; ice cold, is buried alive under your foot.

          - until Spring comes to bring warmth.

-GZ, 1986

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.

let me touch all of you
slowly
until you’re mine.
until i can touch your back like i want 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.

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

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 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.

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.

where would you sit if you were here?
would you tangle your hands
in fabrics and in bread?
would you roast a bird
on christmas?
                     

  -would you make your son
and daughters speak?


your fierce mind and tender heart melded this child of yours and i need you as my guide.

please tell me of this person i've cared for.
please tell me where he fits into my bones.
can he ever nestle easily into my skin?
no, i've tried everything
how can i help to ease into this
when all i need is to push him
into the decent steps of
humankind.
of woman, of man, of child, and child, and child.
i come to you, my distant mother to tell you
your son is not well sometimes.

i miss you and i don't know you, and i miss you.
and your daughters miss you
and they have daughters now.
their world stopped when you left, and i feel like i've been trying to pick up his pieces
but they fall through my palms,
like fingers gripping sand.
he's dropped so many along the way, but i'm trying.


but now i feel more mother than woman.

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

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.

another day by the river
thats just me and the water
i pretend that its only me
i pretend its only me.

i fight like the present
coming back to my salvation
i dream that it is over
that its me and the water
its just me and the water.

but i cant, i cant fight you
your body's always there.
between my river and the outcome
your body's always there.

i dream that the water
will free me to existence
where its me and the river
and you're somewhere only drifting.
i know i've done enough
i know you've left me bleeding
i dream of the water
of the river, of my bleeding.

i see you on my water
i see me only bleeding.
and a bird flying over
and the rest i'll give the river.

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