Have you heard of the
gardens clandestines grow?

The neighbors have, although
until today the gardens were usual, not a
pastime no one would seriously guess.
The flowers are conceptual homonyms
bordered by Boxwood africans
no breadwinning cardinal would bless
with its roost.
                         Grass beneath a golden ninebark
is slightly depressed where some pistol was.
For the past few years the neighbors have wondered daily What the hell is it this guy does?
What, with him always vaguely mumbling "...lots of business trips." It's dark
now, blood spatter coagulates on the picket fence.
                                                          ­                               Four tire streaks on the road,
the responding policemen kept it hushed, speaking in code
to disembodied voices on a radio. Not much more than a glance
and shrug at the neighbors' concerned inquiries.
One consensus formed: he was deep
in consequences from promises he couldn't keep.
This was speculative, of course.
                                                         The palm trees
rustled above their heads. "Maybe he was a clandestine,"
one of the neighbors remarked
as another dismissively barked,
"Ridiculous! He kept a garden!"

Through cold New England January's air
I saw him (Frost) squint,
                                          iconic
from across the East Portico,
                                                 culturally symbolic
on a platform above me (I was twenty-eight).

Years later I knew the paper
he held hard to read,
his hotel's old typewriter
running low on ink
                                 the night before.
The illegible poem a preface

to the one Kennedy requested -
the one he'd read years before (ca. 1942)
in the Virginia Quarterly Review,
                                                        e­yes watering.

Frost stood there, faltering
in the new-fallen snow's reflective light,
half-blinded,
and I was twenty-eight as I thought,
"Kennedy:
                  cultured man,
                                           sycophant, or...?"

She would drown him in her own tears
Fighting for the light
That came at the end of a tunnel
Too long to walk alone

He held her hand just long enough
For the trust to be built
And when he felt her stumbling
He'd only hold on tighter.

One day the tunnel was particularly dark
And she particularly blind
He said I've had enough
And headed to the other side.

He'd been drowning far too long
It was time to take a breath
He tried not to care
If she got lost

Gone was her umbrella
Her protector

And she gasped for air as her tears began to drown her
She searched frantically for the arm she'd held so tight
Only to find her own feet beneath her
And a journey half finished

With each step she found her strength
She began to trust her own legs
Her tears began to clear
She could breathe again

I Beckon to her
Meaning to ****** her with Hope
To Tempt her with Fulfillment
I appeal to her Longing

She wants me
She wants to Let Me Out
Her resolve begins to Slip
She’s going to come to me
She’s going to Slide into my Trap

Bam! She slams the door
I can feel her on The Other Side
As she struggles to block out my Voice
I whisper to her
I Tempt her with the Hope that swells her
Heart

The light around me Flickers
And I plunge into Darkness
She holds me down Mentally
Trying to Drown out my Voice
Trying to Smother me with her pillow

“I’m never going to leave”
“You’ll never get rid of me”
I stalk her with my Words
“Listen to me,”
“Believe in me,”
“Leap of Faith,”
“It won’t hurt this time,”
“I promise.”

You are my first love myfamily, my nakama, ma famille.
You, with your dark hair and tired eyes, and your smile
Once, I begged you to 'have a mustache, Daddy! Now I love the way you look, just as you are.

You come to wake me up in the mornings and I throw pillows, shriek, fake sleep. Underneath it all, I'm glad you're still coming even though I should just get an alarm clock, I should just wake up earlier, I should just go to bed earlier.

Sometimes you smile at me with this old smile, as if you're remembering something far away. Your own childhood, perhaps? There's a look in those eyes of yours that are brown with flecks of green and gold, one that makes me blush and fidget and beam because it says 'You're my daughter and I'm proud'.

Sometimes your shoulders stoop with the weight of our family. You bring in the cash, and I respect you for that. For not complaining. For not lashing out. For not getting mad at us. Instead, you fall asleep during the movies we watch. You take walks with us. You cook for us.

Little by little, you pass parts of yourself onto us.I love drawing, Bimo enjoys organizing something, Uri loves sports.We cook together, play together, hang out together.

I don't mind.You're my first love,my dad, and you're a good dad too..
You hold my hand when I feel sick, listen but don't judge. Raspberry me when I wish wish wish you wouldn't, laugh at and with me because choosing one is too hard. You tell bad jokes and make worse puns, like to work with wood, take your stress away by cooking and sleep on the couch too much. Sometimes you're completely oblivious, other times you choose to look the other way and I appreciate that.


You, my dad, are more than just that. You are my first love.
And I love you, for the reasons above and more:")

heart beat racing,
Palms sweating
Incessant rambling.

This drug is causing too much pain
But what a rush there is to gain
To reach and hold
What can't be controlled
To try and pin
Try and win.

The blood is rushing
The sound is deafening
The room is spinning.

I need to sober this emotion
This intoxicating potion
I need to take the reins
Forsake the pains
Sober myself
Observe my health.

The chase is thrilling
The wait is killing
The passion over spilling
My heart is willing

Call a doctor
Get me sober
Bleed me and drain me
This love won't contain me
It's impossible to hold
What can't be controlled.