Dearest me,
You love sunrises like you love sighs
and old boots and books,
how the snow reminds you of old friends,
like comforters,
like sad days that at least weren’t alone.

You love to breathe, to cradle your own memories.
Dearest me,

I know you loved hard,
so tried and true,
hard shells for each bruise.

I did not pat your head when you cried,
dearest, I’m sorry.
I’m here for you now.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

[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.

it could've been me in your smoke,

lost,
somewhere in the baby cries in your home.

I see her and I see me,

could have laid down the necklace my aunt gave me,
could have taken the ****

could have, in the smoke and in the clouds,
cried in your home.

Oh boy,
I've sinned again.

Fuzzy trinity.

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

keep this,
you.

In this loneliness,
I've missed you.

with all the fire bursting within?
will it make sense?
will anyone listen?

with all the rockets,
fading,
with all the roar and wild and the wind
roaring here, in my roaring heart,
in the boat in this storm of a mind,
rocked,
this rocket ship,
will it fade?
Where will it go?

I am fire
I am burning,
not in passion but in thoughts
riling and riding my mind like a bull,
like a the storm that made the disciples run amok
here and there, screaming, at the edge of losing their lives

and Jesus is sleeping.
hasn't taught me how,
or I haven't learned yet.

That's probably it.

The art of resting
in the midst of the thunder,
lying in bed as the sky cracks and breaks into pieces

the art of slumber, of peace, of contentedness and gratefulness
is an art I need.

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.

My weakness is here,
displayed.

That I may know–
God–
that I may know

Your strength.

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.

Who am I to dwell? Who am I to grieve?
Was I building walls in Israel? Or killed by Jezebel?
Who am I to cry for war, to be in pain?
Was I tearing my garments, was I tearing altars?
Who am I, for You to think on?

For who I am and who I'm not,
for what I've cried and all You've witnessed,–

Who am I, Lord,
for You to love?

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.

[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.

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.

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.

Im putting him in a box where i cannot like him
Where he has no hands
to titter tatter, pieces, scatter—

Im putting him in a box where he cannot falter

Never, never again.

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.

somewhere the cat curls its tail,
and the books look so old.

Heart wallows,
wears, to the bone,
tired.

sagged lungs

and my soul no longer stirs
no "stillness" in peace,
but in numbness

and the bottom tastes like nothing,
it's all a great nothing.

yet I know,
weary arm can hold
can raise itself to the end of the tunnel

I know I'll be okay.
Your promise waits.

heart, air balloon,
the warmth of your presence,
fills me, raises me.

I am not defined
by the "i love yous" I never got.
or the ones that were taken away,
or the ones that were never meant.

I am not these mistakes,
not these storms,

I'm not the bent palm tree
the debris
of the hurricane.

But I am what I am,
a daughter, a child,
broken, bruised, beaten,
but not defeated,
alive.

I am here.
I am okay.
I am with You.

I will rise, I will not fall,
not any further.

And if I do,
your hands, Father,
hold

my wallowing heart,
my weariness.

I am not defeated,
though I am beaten.

You will raise me still,
your hands will hold,
this I trust, Lord.

Your hands will hold.

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.

[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.

[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?

[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.

I'd sit back on a lawn chair before a wide ocean,
look at the sparks on the sea and the sky
I'd think and think about beauty like it's not a waste of time

I'd drown my mistakes with years
The skin their hands touched would disappear.
I would get drunk somewhere in the beaches of Guatemala,
kiss strangers--

like the lights over the ocean at night,
like still water.

I would breathe, for once.

At the bottom of the bottle
my own warped face-- the glass,
eyes that reflect 2014 for what it was

the bottle-neck becoming mine 

At the bottom of the barrel
I find words for poetry, words for me. 

At the bottom of it all I can see.

I think I found the answer when I swung my head back and looked at the ceiling,
******* drunk, and no one to text.

I miss the sound of snow crunching under my brown boots,
walking back to her, my friend—
Friends; people who, for goodness,
We beat and live and cheer each other,
cheer in the midst of our shattering, the fall-down,
and the rise—

and I was walking back to her,
my dearest,
dearest friend.

[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.

Hello, 6 a.m.
Today you look the the six year old
who wrote stories.

She knocks on my door sometimes,

and I live in fear of her,
because she cries and it makes sense--

and I just can't think about it.
I can't think about it.

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.

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.

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.

[A prose poem]

I look at this candle and think of heat. Small ones, like these.
       You burnt a mouse when you were young. It screamed and screamed, you said. It screamed until it stopped.
       And so you inch away from little heats, like these. Candle lit evenings are not your thing. Little flames are not for warmth, but for the vague memory of a distant sin.
Here, take a seat.
       I know you'll want to run away, where the screams can weigh heavy without the watch of– well, me.
       I don't know how much smoke you've breathed in, or how your little hands and feet will fare trying to reach for clean air, for the life you want to set ablaze in anywhere but yourself. I don't know how you're planning to use burnt out matches.
      The mouse is gone. He's gone, he is. Listen to me.
      There is no greater scream than the past's flames. It doesn't matter how much I say I love you. In the end, I can't set ablaze a lump of ashes. And you can't just "love yourself" either– that won't help you, see?
       Roll your eyes; glare at me. But if you don't let Him give you new matches, you won't be able to set hearts ablaze in the midst of more screams.

Not that it matters anymore!
Who knows?
Where will I be in ten, two
minutes, years?

Nor do I, you see,
nor do I know.

You, you elusive you,
whoever you are.
Yes, I'm speaking to you.

Here, "let me hold that soul for you".
Stranger, I know you,
Like I know how my heart bleeds in the middle of the night,
how I know my dry lips and skin rest on my crumpled bed sheets,
like I know my purged belly wrinkles itself inside out,
like I know the secrets hiding in my closet,
the many diaries I haven't been able to throw out,

You, dearest stranger,
you and I share this amazing pain,
this, this human-ness.

I don't know you, but I know you. Too well.
Here, "let me hold that soul for you".
If we drown, we drown together.

I sit here drunk,
think: no one is here.

but I'm here,
and all of their teachings, all of a sudden
all of their words,
the comfort of old friends that I don't have anymore,

My heart keeps them.
This treasure,
beautiful treasure, of mine.

I'm lonely,
but I'm not.

I love you, I miss you.

it was a bottle or two,
downed, you know,

by this grave, grave "poetic hen."

birthing eggs of nothing,

words that'll scroll up in a thousand screens

like yours, like mine,

we share, you and I,
a great,
a very great,
nothing.

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.

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.

[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.

[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.

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.

That summer
I spent kissing leaves
The summer green that knew
how to sing,
“over, over now”
for now,
for now it was.

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.

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.