In the deep corners of 3am,
I find her.

I pray for you night and day.
Sometimes, as I do the dishes, or play videogames.
You look so gentle, you sleeping phoenix.
I know you're capable, but still,
I see you're fickle. I can't let you fade.

So I pray for you, night and day.
I'd miss you, a whole bunch,
if you listened to your tears,
if you gave in.
or gave up, no less.

Bear with me, Smile.
Let me cling to this denial.

A pickle’s tip is not enough for you.
Its going all in.
Taste is a side dish, too.

Savor the mooned lemons,
the skin’s sahara’s,
or the two parallel
ulurus.

Don’t forget your sin.

You take food off the table–
from your neighbours, too.
Your hunger could ****.

Take your worn-out maps–
old lessons of geography–
skim your finger
in between the iced caps.

Kiss the foreign,
the countries that don’t belong
to you.

Take it all, avariced ****.

***, to you,
is a selfish meal.

Knees on the ground, he said:
"The calling of the abyss,
the beckons from the smoke,
the waters down below,
I'm falling with ease."

But I came from his rib.
I bow, –submissive–
In quiescence I can't preach.

Yet my veil grows.

Take my hand.
Anointed or not;
Man,
I am your glory.

From my nose,
my lips and eyes–,

strings.

I’m attached to
white.

There’s a nutcracker
in my throat.

I squirm,
go down the drain–,

Slime, slime,
and strings.

Its on my legs,
my chin,
in the smell, the air.

I’m attached to home,
to the lingering
blue
of my favorite room.

If ceramic dolls were
bowls,
I’d mark them all.

Friend, don’t give in.
I’m drowning in knees,
they are up to my chest
and I can’t breathe.

But we can flush,
and maybe “purge”,
can mean rebirth.

[A prose poem]

I see a palm reaching out for me, from the pitch black.
     I try to sleep and close my eyes, but I still see this palm, trying to cover my face or scratch the skin it hates– I close my eyes and I still see it.
I know where this palm came from.
     I know it from the time the backdrop was not dark, but a horrid party at a lonesome house where I had too many shots. I know this palm will try to take whatever it wants, and it’ll crook its fingers and slide wherever it pleases, without caring to come back to my face when the tears roll down; it does not care to treat them, it does not care to wipe them. It does not care.
     Its been more than a year now, and still I go to sleep and think of hands. Of the word “no”, and how useless it is, just like trying to get some good sleep now. I close my eyes and try to forgive every one of those fingers.

Your words collect themselves.
Smoke of blank ink–
The blots form hands and feet.

Hello, Leviathan.

Dearest,
Drag me to ceramic land.

Sink your fangs on my knees.
Claw; curl my shoulders.
Scratch, raise my sleeves.
Force my hand to my face.

Leviathan, Leviathan,
you've failed.

You've prepared me for prayer.

In your eyes I'm scorched under the sun
the magnifying glass widens your blue eye--

I have loved it,
and you have loved to judge,

I burn under your scrutiny
I'm insect small.

[A prose poem]

I need to tell you about someone you should know.

She never uses her index finger.
          Well, that's not true anymore. She gave up on the quirk, and now uses the fullness of her thin fingers. They're wounded though. You have to know her hands.
        She picks the skin on the borders of her nails, as if the lack of red were mediocre. She needs passion, she does. And roses. They cascade on the right wall of her room.
        See, there's something about people who tape roses on their walls. I can see her scarred little fingers, pushing adhesive on the flowers.

See it fall
gradually, the heart
breaks.

and what do you do with the pieces?
Fragments like broken glass
Each reflecting a memory I need to let go of,
These indifferent memories
ache.

I do nothing but sit on bed and
Feel.
And it hurts.
And it hurts.

Her fingers curl.

Gently, at first.
A child laughs.
And the wind chimes,
the bird’s coo–
they laugh with her, too.

Her fingers curl.
Tighter.

The asphyxia is new.
The sacks of bones,

–so bold, weren’t we?–

white heads, the wrinkles,
the ill memories–

Her fingers curl.
And she keeps laughing,
without us, too.

The road tore,
just in two.

The colors
are yours,

brush me blue.

I'll go.

Your streaks
will be the boot marks
on my back,

and the other cheek.

Your rancor
will color me.  

But I'll make it,
all,
Holi.

Prowling by. One paw, one paw–it hunts slowly.

[prose poem]

          I never noticed how mine these hands are. There, glossy, rinsed clean. Do I want to move my fingers? They will. All of them, they will.
Underneath the water's gloss I see the lines; some ragged and some fine, some smaller and some smaller than the small.
          Though I am no author of what I own, I can see how precious is His gift– and it's been here all this time.
I don't need too look too far. Even for clothes or something to dine. Though I am content with those, I've had, here,
          these hands of mine.

Oh boy,
I've sinned again.

Fuzzy trinity.

Judas might have met me
and Heil––
such is my betrayal––
and Heil.

Child, please look up.
I know you don’t want to listen.
But you will, you will take what suits you.
I know you well.
Stop, wait,
You don’t need to blur the lines.
There is no black and white–
I know you’ve learned that the hard way,
but just wait– don’t shade just yet.

There is a certain grey.
But don’t rush– hush,
Put the paintbrush down.
You don’t need to sin to understand.
Child, I’m sorry you’re so lost.
Take it from me:
You’ll be fine.
You’ll be fine.

Alright, there it is. He likes her.
The confident,
The blonde--

I drink.
Alone, dwelling on how blotted
I am.

I was art to him,
wanted
I was the sketch on his journals

And I didnt want to see it
end
I didnt want to see him move on
find someone new, "I don't want to be there for that,"
she said about her ex,
and I could also say that
to him.

Cheers to this heart,
I'm broken and wallow
In the shadow of
her voice, her hair, herself

Blotted.

May I go back to You?
     I'm sorry I've strayed. The wrecked trail looked so strange, and this stubborn heart of mine can't resist the foreign, the deranged. I'm sorry. I strayed.  
     I've bawled my eyes out so fiercely. I cannot seem to shovel the snow off this path, or tuck my hands back into the warmth.
     Take these ice-burnt palms of mine; take this lousy shovel, the pen I tried to use to uncover those layers off me; take the need for nicotine, for the viscous cycles that bound me in a life of backsliding, no ears to hear or eyes to see. Guide me, Father.
Guide me home,
set me free.

Gentle dabs at the window, still.  
Maybe the clouds dip their pureness here,
purposely.

Even the greatest angel was envious–
this wickedness, these slopes and steeps–

This is humanity.

Your love is, and yet,
    I have no way to say it.
Your love?– how can I?– open arms and hugging suns, and softening clouds for weary hearts?– Your love?
    As I curl up in bed– a little bonfire in my chest–
how will words do? and how can I best confess it to You?
    It is kind, yes, I know it is patient; it is visible and gracious.
    And perhaps it won't do, but still,
I love You.

[Prose poem]

Look at how the wind lifts the snow. It looks like a spirit.
       Maybe I was here, sitting still. Looking at the snow being exhaled, from the rooftops and windowsills. You turn the diaphanous into strings, Your wind the bow, the sight a melody. Maybe the cold and white is purity, like it would seem to be. We die to live. Drop our leaves like vice baggage, and wear new sleeves. You crafted it all so carefully. The art of telling the proud waves to settle, to make an ocean while making seconds, and whiles, and everything.
       And where was I?
Maybe I was here, sitting still.

[prose poem]

If You are love, and You are in all the things I love–
then You are in my morning coffee cup. The one I drink when I've had little sleep, and I feel the adrenaline sizzle my skin. You are in those fresh mornings, when everyone is asleep. And I walk on tiptoes, loving the silence, the delicate serenity.
You are in every string quartet I've heard, every pull of the string, every soft harmony. You are in pens, yellowed old pages, in nights I spent on balconies looking over the edges–
You are in my walks, here and there– You are in these pages.
You are sometimes even in what I hated.
This body that I predicated, that I detested– You've dwelt here, You've cleansed me. You chose this, before the ages.
You are love, and my everything.

maybe if I close my eyes,
if I stop thinking
Maybe the world will stop turning with me,
like a friend

And in this magnificient pause,
in that glorious stop,

maybe we’ll breathe.

Maybe its time to put these rabid dogs to sleep.
They’ve mastered the art of barking at midnight.
My eye-bags have sagged for eternity.

But You touch the heavy heart,
the one that sags just the same.

It heals, expands,
and breathes.

I forgive.

For there she was.*
Upright, bliss.
Blooming petal,
do its wish.

What a day,  

sounds, sounds
and people,
she says.

Dalloway, her petals,
the ones she picked,
herself.

She breathes
air like silk.
Details, dresses,
Precious petal,
does not know.

And the patient,
the open palms,
wait for prayers–
prayers, perhaps.

What a day.

*Mrs. Dalloway said,
she would pick the flowers
herself.

Heed, heed o trees
I have a heart ready to set sail.
Roar, the slow clouds roar their route
to everlasting;

I have packed my bags.
I have steeled my eyes.

[A prose poem]

       I never loved apples. They taste just okay. But I looked up "how to be anorexic" on google once, and an ana-pro idiot said we should imagine food as monsters. "Take an apple, for example. Imagine it turning into a dead pig. Imagine it rotting. Worms coming out of it."
      I still don't like apples. But I still like chocolate.

Wounds that bleed for years
are silent.
Only underneath this band-aid
you'll hear howling dogs.

She doesn't know,
she never will--
how this wound still bleeds,

how her naive knife just

sinks,
deep.

You peel open my chest–
how beautiful, Lord–
You turn this rotten apple,
to color.

[A prose poem.]

I see you’ve got the ropes.
       Somehow you adapted. There, your green tea; you filled your thermos last night, preemptively. Your fingers have always been awkward too. You treat your hands as if they were chubby. And they hold the thermos with strength, like they hold everything-- except for your papers and your keyboard. You hold those differently.  
       Remember the balcony? You had too much wine, obviously. Your rolling on the floor from one end to the other turned legendary. But time rolls by, and so do tobacco leaves on papers, and you hate those two things.
       Listen, I’m not the same. I’m sorry. I now have posters on the walls of my room. And I still pick pieces off my lip, but I wear chapstick too. And I’ve started to drink coffee again, with sugar. I’ve made peace with mirrors. And I’ve also started to learn some french, Je m’excuse.
       What page number were we in? I’ve known you through some invincible years, but I’m starting to see the fray.
       You forgot to take the balcony along. You’ve got the hang of your schedule, where and how to tunnel your way to class; you get up as soon as our alarm goes off. No snooze. You sit down and vaguely remember the journals you wasted your soul in; all the conversations tinted with beer were drowned by fear, and fear by coping, and your coping is scaring me. The ropes are gripped tightly by your fingers, and I might know why.
       And I’m already mourning; I don’t need any more black clothes, any more sad entries. Know that I still love you-- that’s still the same. But, here, I am this. It hurts to know that is not okay, that at the bottom of our wine bottles there’ll be resentments, but I still love you all the same. I’d rather taste your rancour than bittersweet memories, wondering how I’d give you tulips, if you really want to be cremated.
       Maybe we’re tying knots on the veins of a good life– and what for?– the classic problem is, perhaps we’re still ‘too young.’ We lost the children we used to be, but we’re in that grey area between losing and finding something to find.  
       And I’m already missing you. And maybe there’s no point in begging, but,
I see you’ve got the ropes and I’m terrified.
Please,
stay with me.

Now that I've pulled out the needles,
or that I've quit tracing the EKG,
I don't know where to dip my pen in.

I see artistry in the way these branches bend and twirl.
The abundant bough goes naked.
I see there is artistry here.

So if I look at a star-struck night, or a dim one here in Fredericton,
If I walk these silent streets and think of the hum in the stillness,
may I think of You, Breather, Your heart beating and gentle hand.
How am I still here?
When I think of the 'big' world there is and my insides knot with ambition,
And I turn to look for adventure, magic, for something different,
may I realize there's Your gaze draping everything,
with beauty, cognition.

To know the dew that sprinkles over this life,
comes from Your love, Your own existence–
may this earth and all that comes alive raise its voice to say,

Jesus,

be glorified, forever and ever,
Amen.

Whoever is empty
is hungry.

And all one can think about is food.

When a stranger offers
a loaf,

you think he is doing you a favor.

But no human deserves
to be starved at all.

Soy tormenta.
violenta.

Por dentro, solamente.

Si me ves por fuera,
veras, querida,
a cualquier otra.
Como todas,
no hablamos del dolor,
ni de la incapacidad
de levantarse cada mañana.

Y como?
En esta Honduras?
Donde la penumbra se encuentra,
en la sombra de las criticas,
el chisme, clase alta,
y pendeja,

y por eso seguimos
aqui.

My weakness is here,
displayed.

That I may know–
God–
that I may know

Your strength.

[A prose poem.]

Dear,
       We didn't meet by the train tracks, and not after a wedding reception. I didn't hover a yellow umbrella over you. There was no pouring rain.
       At some point I brightened; when I curled my fists with joy, you rolled your eyes, your tobacco leaves– there, your artsy nicotine– and puffed your own clouds over your own clean meadows.
       I wish you well, but I want the next one to know– if she is dark, if she is lonely– you'll say "I love you" way too soon.

Its 3am and nothing else.
To write a good verse, I need a heart.
Just one.

There, a showcase. Hearts of all types.
You connoisseur of broken. You say,
Here are the ones that gush the most blood.
Owners of poetry, verses that quiver.
these are raw, raw, raw.

Ah, yes, you moan and lick your fingers.

I shiver.
Some veins are just thicker.
Come, you say, *I see those hearts won't fit you,
Try these ones on discount.
Plastic copies on a platter
for people to pick 'em.

Can't fix like You do.

to think I can heal,
is proud.

come,
please,

help me let go
and go
grip Your hand

not these old
shards of mine.

keep this,
you.

In this loneliness,
I've missed you.

[A prose poem]

I used to have long hair. I chopped it off. It bothered me.
       But I was also numb, and sometimes ardent; I reserved my anger in patient and bursting wine skins. I was sad and didn't know it.
      Listen, I'm not the same. I'm sorry. I now have posters on the walls of my room. And I still pick pieces off my lip, but I wear chapstick too. And I've started to drink coffee again, with sugar. And I've also learned some french, Je m'excuse.
      What page number were we in? All I know is I'm not there anymore. I've known you through some invincible years, but I'm starting to see the fray. Like split ends.
      I'm not good with scissors though. This is not a threat, you need to know that. Because I'm not good with scissors. Please know that.
      And know that I still love you– that's still the same. But, here, I am this, I am this. This is who I am. Is that okay?

[A prose poem].

I see you've got the ropes.
        Somehow you adapted. There, your green tea; you filled your thermos last night, preemptively. Your fingers have always been awkward too. They incline to the chubby side, your fingers. And they hold the thermos with strength, like they hold everything– except for your papers and your keyboard. You don't grip those. You tap. Are you aware?
       Remember the balcony? You had too much wine, obviously. Your rolling on the floor from one end to the other turned legendary. But time rolls by, and so do tobacco leaves on papers, and you hate those two things.
       You took the balcony along. You've got the hang of your schedule, where and how to tunnel your way to class; you get up as soon as your alarm goes off. No snooze. The ropes are gripped tightly by your fingers, and I don't know why.

Sleep, rose.
Wither your petals slowly.
Hush, now.
The wolf prowls soundly.

The snow is kind.
Sleep, please.
End this softly.

I'd like those passing trees to be my life.
Like a child who traces the contour of nature,
as they whoosh by the window,
on the backseat of a car.

I'd like someone else to drive,
to see one-fifty meters ahead, all the time.
I'd like the sunshine to toast my rested face,
as I head somewhere, always.

And sleep as the miles go by,
as the miles,
miles go by.

Let there be,
in this moment,

peace.

Let in
these pages,

let there be peace.

You kiss
my soul
to sleep.

And I know,
that I know
that I know

You're good to me.