always been a plain one,
no frills, tidy packaging.

went to liverpool, slowly,
rather slowly to be safe.

on arrival found art to
be inspired, enquired
about restrictions there,
the mirrors square.

on arrival found bling.wore bling.

on returning home ate liver. #apt.

a rush of ink
on the back of a bill,
thanking me
for taking care
of you
and your family.

i still have it —
it’s framed.

never meet your heroes,
they say.
but what if their art
scatters the darkness
we all try to navigate?

a Proustian quest for original wonder gets illuminated among pine, olive, palm trees
the eye needs delicacy and moderation to grasp the breeze of thoughts
is it the soul or an architect of joy who blends the harmonies in a pointilist smile on my face
an atmospheric fluidity in my hands between land, sea and light

ten nights,
my glass held nothing
but water and light.

ten mornings,
i woke to myself
instead of forgetting.

tonight,
my heart spilled open
and the world drank me in.

weeds heed no measure of time
save perhaps the ticking of rain

or the slow circle of seasons
in their own meter

they climb their way
through the creases and the concrete

splaying themselves before the sun
the dragonfly red bodied and resting

so patient upon the warmth of the garden stone
it has no word for pastpresentfuture

there is only now
and now

is always enough
be wary of power

of those who        collect and wield it
of those who        conscript and twist it

be wary of all that prattle and blather
it has absolutely nothing to do with power

or weeds
or dragonflies

a whisper of a prayer.
the crescent moon.
the flickering candlelight in her eyes.
the needle and a spoon.

down the hall
a radio plays softly.

her silhouette dances
on the plaster wall
like the waning crescent moon

and the moon holds no light of its own.
it resides in darkness.

(carved into the wall)

epigraph:

the needle in my arm
and the world
can do me no harm.

the needle and the spoon
and the waning crescent moon---benediction,
the night remembers no one.

(a tribute to becky albertalli)

i learnt english at sea,
traded my tongue
for salt and compass,
but it was becky
who brought me back to land —
when a boy fell in love
with another boy,
and his words dared me
to claim that same love
as my own.

her book lived on my nightstand,
spine worn to a gentle curve,
sentences humming in my head
until they belonged to me
as much as they belonged to her.

she offered me the strength
to feel less ashamed
of being different,
gave me a fire that burned
through the blame
i was ready to bear myself.

she gifted me with confidence
to leave my homeland
my heart outgrew,
and find my way to a place
where love was not a secret —
a shore worth swimming to.

got together before,
thrived during,
and deepened after.

the world had gone quiet,
streets hushed,
time slowed to a simmer.
we measured days in drinking,
and nights in being together.

that summer,
while you worked,
i found a passion
in building a home —
a craft i had overlooked before.

i baked with my heart,
and cooked with my soul.

my mother was stupefied —
i never, not once,
helped her in my life.
even the way i peeled potatoes
was apparently a crime.

but then,
i created specialties,
dishes from all over the world,
setting time aside each day
to warm your heart
with two courses,
and desserts.

that fire still lives.
i’m so **** good
at what i do —
because food is my love language,
and when i cook,
it’s all for you.

the day has flared
and fallen

into fire
clouds climb

in silence
the trees whisper

something green
in their mystery

in places
wait the oranges

and reds of autumn
in places

wait the whites
and blues of winter

sometimes we must
look upon the things

we have no name for