That night, the moon was so bright
its beams gave us shadows
dancing for joy as we walked,
hand in hand in wonder at the
wildness of our brave new world
with strange rules of addition:
a planet where one plus one equals one,
no longer the loneliest number but
the most beautiful common denominator.

Frost forms on the window as I fly away from you,
looking through the crystals to clouds,
imagining falling through frigid air outside,
my faith in a folded parachute to end my flight.
You told me once you’d do it, you’d jump into the sky,
but never for the thrill of risk, only to rescue, to save a life.
I wonder if you see me falling into your eyes,
and in your heart, am I worth a dive
for love, or even friendship’s sake?
Maybe that jump's just a risk you won't take.

It was only play and simply fun.
At the moment’s bequest, the deed was done.
In front of an audience, acting the parts,
lovers with all the words written for us.
Never your Juliet, never my prince,
a quick, cold, and business-like kiss.
The hidden truth you’ll never know?
I savored this moment that wasn’t my own.
I let myself go when I kissed you and sighed,
for I knew what love felt like, for the very first time.

I don’t remember what I had for dinner yesterday
I walked out my door forgetting why as I locked it,
my shoelaces didn’t tie themselves today like they usually do.
Also, I called my friend “Mommy.”

But after certain ungodly hours spent between pages:
I can spell the names of all those ancient Greek poets
and recite the tragic tale of Dido, the Carthagian queen.
If asked, I might outline the life cycle of a fern and
tell those (few) who want to listen exactly how
cells communicate-cascading signals down in a waterfall.
I know the ratio in which certain atoms combine,
in a dance of mutual benefit and energy.

Yet my keys, sitting right there, in front of me,
on the desk where they landed five minutes ago,
play a hiding game as elusive as that thought
which forgotten, tugs at my mind, trying to tell me
its name, trying to tell me the terrible truth that
I didn’t brush my teeth this morning.

Memorizing makes an absent mind.

Oh, Lac Operon, gene cluster great, you code for enzymes three,
but only if Lactose in the cell arrives to set you free.
Lac Z, Lac A, Lac Y: these genes would be expressed
yet a crafty protein from gene I keeps you so repressed.
Binding to the Operator, I’s Repressor keeps you capped.
Do not despair—Lactose saves you from this cruel Repressor trap,
for Lactose turns the Repressor off, giving you the space
to make galactosidase, transacetylase, and lactose permease.
Then Polymerase binds the Promoter, and the Lac genes have their day.
yet alas! They break down Lactose, taking your savior away.
When Lactose is gone, the Repressor binds and causes you to freeze,
so Operon, to live again, you must find more milk and cheese.

Camera-happy me captures moments constantly,
yet with you, I fail and realize: a simple photo can’t suffice.
It cannot exhale, inhale, run its fingers through its hair,
look, laugh with your eyes, speak, seeming older and wise,
for in reality you’re more than a lens could ever see.
Your smile’s light resists a frame, and a flash cannot tame
the wildness of your mind or cage your heart--so kind
that you soar through my life like no one before,
but because your essence escapes photography,
I wonder if you can ever belong to me.

I used to be
someone who
never told anyone
anything she wanted
I kept it all inside, and so
I felt, I breathed, I lived my life.
That was enough and that was all.
Now that I'm older, wiser and stupider,
I name them. I claim them, ashamedly and
unashamedly. And I don't think I ask too much.
So listen, please. with your heart and consider:
to be important as others are important,
to be greeted with a hug and smiles,
to be missed when I'm not here,
to be listened to and heard,
to be part of a whole,
to be respected,
to be loved,
to be real,
To be.

Light breaks the clouds.
It wafts in the window through the sterile air
into the room where he lies, burning.
Its rays hit your face
I stand behind you in the dark as you speak to him.
Elevated, authoritative, calm and cool,
you look pain in the eyes and smile,
explaining, the fever is spiking
because the infection is spreading
and there’s need for debriding,
also treating with something
starting with “Vanc” and ends with “In.”

I watch silently from the corner, and as you speak,
I realize who you are.
You are smart, strong, and shrewd,
You are tough and tenacious.
You are efficient, and you make your work look effortless.
I could be all of that.
I will be all of that.

But first of all, you are you.
I want to be me too.

We are stories that we tell because we can’t help but live,
every day and every way, through our music, our words,
our pictures, our bodies.
All day and long into the night, the universe hears us living loud
as we share our stories spinning around the sun’s fire,
playing songs and writing words,
drawing pictures and dancing to the rhythm of our heartbeats
driving us forward into our future.

I like to begin this story with her shoes: Sequins, orange plastic straps,
cork sole, pointed wedge toes, and 2 inch high heels.
Impossible for mountain climbing.
And yet, I was the one who fell.

I thought I was saving lives that day.
I meant well, and as I see myself,
climbing down the mountain,
I know I believed I was a hero.
And, honestly, wouldn’t you?
If you climbed up a mountain to give medicine to
someone laying sick in a house made of dirt,
if children smiled as you gave them toothbrushes
to protect the teeth missing already from their parents’ mouths,
if an old woman held your hand and thanked God for you,
Me agradezca a Dios por su ayuda.

She walked with me, my guide.
Meant to walk before me and lead me safe,
but heroes are better than high heels
so I walked beside her, faster.
The path inclined downward, sharply, and curved.
At the edge of the curve, a drop, 30 feet or more,
My left boot slipped, rocks and dust giving way
I shot sideways toward the drop, flailing,
Humanity crashed back into me.

I like to end this story with her hands:
Simple human hands, four fingers, a palm, a thumb
Strong, worn, smooth like a rock worn by the sand.
These hands caught me falling to my death
on the side of a mountain and held me steady.
These hands taught me that it’s not heroes who save lives
because all she had to do to save me was hold my hand.

He bends over the paper, his pencil scribbling,
trying to keep up with his neurons firing.
Three plus eight is eleven, carry the one,
He shows me when he’s done,
and for a moment looks at me
questioning, did he succeed?
Carefully, I check his work, I smile, I nod.
The light in his eyes lights up the world.

One two, one two, with a pause between.
Victory drums beating out in glory
because today, I am alive.
Maybe someday, the drums will skip a beat.
Certainly someday, the drums will stop.
But for now my heart is dancing happily
to the pulse that gives me life,
making music with every single breath.

In the scheme of things, I am small.
But my problems can’t shake me off their backs,
my to-do list wants a quiet night at home, and
my calendar wishes it had room to breathe.
I’ve always been insane that way, but truthfully
it doesn’t bother me.
Before I go to sleep, my problems are solved,
the to do list gets a rest,
and tomorrow’s calendar may be full, but today’s calendar sighs with relief.
World, your problems have lived the easy life,
but I'm awake now, with a calendar of a lifetime to fill.
Can I help with your to-do list?

One. Two. Three.
And then you exhale.
Your head is cradled in the pillow.
Your eyes are closed.
You are fast asleep in a very waking world.
It’s a noisy world, my love.
Machines are beeping, wheels are squeaking,
busy heels are clicking, clacking on a white tile floor.
It’s a world of firsts for me, my love.
The first meal bought in a gift shop,
the first night sleeping on a army cot,
the first consent form I signed on your behalf,
the first time I squeezed your hand
and you didn't squeeze back.
A world of hope and faith,
friends’ prayers wing to heaven,
and surround me in peace.
A world of fear and doubt.
I count the seconds until you breathe.
I will you to inhale.
Then exhale again.
Please.

For every life, a life must be given.*
Nature knows this well; my mind reels in
fascination and revulsion at Nature’s ugliest things.
I am caught in wonder and disgust for the things they do.
Bacteria that thrive on flesh, parasites that steal life from life,
viruses that invade the deep and make us their home:
these are the beautiful and terrible of Nature,
slipping past our defenses to make us give our lives for theirs.

Yet, humans are clever and wise.

Clever because we get sick,
and when we’re sick, we’re fighting,
We fight on and on, we get sicker and sicker,
and when we’re most vulnerable,
when our bodies fall around us, and we shake from the fever of battle,
all the beautiful and terrible cry out in agony and
what was lost is reclaimed in health.

Wiser because some know they can give their own lives
to help each other take back what was stolen.
That is what I know.
That’s why you’ll see me there on the day of the battle.
I’ll feed spirits with faith and love,
bring medicine that weakens the enemy, and hold soldiers’ hands,
give all my hours, days, and weeks to help fight the greatest fight.
And when the battle’s won, I’ll send up a mighty cheer, toast the troops,
pack my bags, and head for home, content.
We'll live to fight another day.

There’s a difference between looking and seeing.  
I’ve looked bones in books a million times.
I’ve looked at skulls in horror movies out of the corner of my eyes.
But this year, I saw her.
Yellowed and petite, she stood in the corner of the lab.
A stand cradled her spine, wire bound her together,
her head ornamentally dangled from a string.
Tasked with learning the parts of the body, I touched her hands.
Then I realized:
These are her hands.

That canyon deep inside--that aching, echoing chasm
where at night your pain is so loud that you can’t sleep.  
I’ve had one too, and so I ask as one who knows:
please don’t fill that canyon with rocks,
only to repeat when time weathers the rocks away
leaving the canyon empty and echoing again.
Don’t treat what hurts and ignore the cause.
Instead let your tears run, filling the canyon with a river
that’s fast and frightening.
Let me take your hand to travel in a boat up the scary waters of pain,
rowing together, moving out of the canyon to a place where nights are silent.

smoke break one when I walk in at 8
though it could be two already today  
as I don't know when she got here
only that she disappears
at 8 and then 11 to see her through
to late afternoon
when she'll leave and be returning
empty packed as I’m packing up,
and she hides it so well
her fingers aren't yellowed and the smell
only faint on her breath if you’re real close
it's not even on her clothes
scented the way some say
a woman should of flowers
I want to whisper in her ear
that whatever leads her
over again outside that door cannot
hurt more than the loss of laughs
to gasps for air and coughs
don't take your breath away  
let me take it instead.

You remind me of that boy down the street
who rode his skateboard
running chills along my spine
in the heat of a summer evening,
the boy who inspired my mother to pray--
Lord, please protect her from those
heartbreaker eyes that gleam with
too much laughter and not enough love--
the boy whose July birthday I still remember
because he was bad in all those good itchy ways
begging me to just scratch a little harder now
though I was young with blunted fingernails
so he never meant more than
the diary buried in a box in my garage or
an shivery afterthought on summer nights,
but here you are, the boy next door made man
you meet me, still that girl yet woman so
what's running along my spine aren't chills
they're flames begging me to just burn a little badly
now, inspiring me to pray--
Lord, please put the fire out before I am consumed.