I used to speak French
to protect myself.
impressing those around me
with grammatically incorrect insults
hidden behind a smile
to make them think I just
said something beautiful.

C’est la vie.

My mother lied to me.
My father hid his lie from me.
My brother thought he was lying to
me when he was really
telling me the truth.

I used to draw blood in order
to feel something when in
actuality I was feeling
everything.

I have a notebook, a pen
and a bag of pretzels; the
tunnels of light to escape these
walls.

A wall I can’t see.
Strangers I don’t trust.
Friends I send away…

Maybe I should have spoken
Spanish, that way more
people would have been
able to call my bluff.

Funny.
I prefer Spanish food over French.
Save for Wine – Tequila makes me sick.

I hate teenagers.
I’ve discovered this in the past year.

Maybe it’s time to learn a new language.

The smell of Mexican food
compels me up the stairs
despite the fact that I was headed
there anyway.
Musty carpets
mingled with pollo
and pico de gallo –
I think it’s comforting.
3rd floor.
I peer down the hall
intimidated by its infiniteness.
it would seem wider
were it not for the paintings
covering every inch of wall…

Civil War revolutionaries,
Nefertiti’s chambermaid
reading hieroglyphs,
a snowy afternoon,
slaughtered African wildlife
and I’m only at Suite 302.

Maybe I should have entered
through another door –
unless that’s where I exit…
if I even exit at all.

Watercolor,
photography,
the asking price
out of my range.

Where does this hallway end?
I saw the beginning –
at least I thought it was,
hidden by another staircase.

I’m afraid to stop –
306 –
less these dried
color messages wrap me
in the minds of their creators.

I once wrote a poem about
a piece of art…
Deep, thoughtful and questioning
the meaning of life.
I read it to the artist.
They said they were inspired
by pop cans at the grocery store.

My soul shattered that day.

Putting the pieces together in
Suite 314.

“When do you feel sexiest?”

kisses liquor-infused whipped cream
and a broken remote.
A new comforter.
red and blue blinds
throbbing beyond my eyelids—
“you’re falling asleep”
no I’m not
Chest hair curlicues
iron on the floor
cement block with contact lenses
and condensation from early morning.
kisses sighs fresh sheets
and a broken remote.

“Get naked”
all naked or just a little naked?
new haircut stolen DVD’s kisses
on cocoa butter skin—
where’s the remote?
Nighttime spasms.
Legs and diaphragm.

kisses liquor skin wet –
sweat and strawberry flavored love.

A,B,C, or D?
definitely A.
Missionaries.
Sensual.
Another movie and a
fresh pair of sheets.
kisses liquor and a
broken remote.

She said she would be willing to get a matching tattoo
with me. A flower permanently imprinted on our skin.
She likes orchids, I like lilies. And even after moving
away she understands my addictions; growing old,
the rain, Team Gibbs, bats, my love for pistachios
and maybe even my need to come back home.

As much as I love Ohio, it’s nice to go home
every once and awhile. Saving up for my tattoo
is not easy when I keep spending my money on M&M;’s and pistachios,
especially when my mother isn’t there to pinch my skin
and tell me to put my wallet away. She’s not old—
but I certainly feel like I am when she says she’s moving

away from me. I toss and turn and move
in my sleep thinking about how home
will never be the same without her. The cats are getting old;
their time is coming. Maybe we should get a tattoo
of them instead of flowers—light and dark brown skin
warm and cuddled together, munching on pistachios.

I remember when I first became addicted to pistachios.
It was a church Christmas party and the wine was moving
closer to my hands. Mom said I could, as I felt the buzz of my skin
react to my fourth glass. She shook her head and drove me home
laughing at my sneaky attempts to act sober. A tattoo
was out of the question; what would I think when I got old?

Our relationship now has changed, intimate friends never too old
to dance or talk about our *** lives, throwing pistachios
at each other or plan out our future tattoos.
I am going to miss her, and she me, as she moves
on with her dreams, starting over, building a new home
In a place we’ve never known, but always in the same skin

that I have loved my whole life.  A soft, toasted skin
that has been passed down to me for my days of old.
Born, nurtured, taught and loved in my mother’s home;
home-cooked meals that surpass the freshest of pistachios
so I would one day learn how to cook. No matter where she moves,
my mother will remain deep in my heart, my skin—like a tattoo.

She gave me my skin and approved of my tattoo,
provided me with a home complete with pistachios
and an old promise: her heart is unmoving.

I cannot write about it anymore-
the shame,
the fear…
How can I tell anyone when my secret lays
crudely hidden inside
the trunk at the foot of
my bed, camouflaged by music
sheets and the dusty Playboys
that my brother passed down to me.

I never asked for them anyway.

I hide
in self-isolation
safe from the unknowing uncaring
judgmental bloodthirsty oblivious
eyes of Mechanicsville,
Maryland.
Maybe I could catch a horse ‘n buggy
and work my worries away—

No—
they would sense my disease
and throw me to the wild dogs;
more like Labs and Puggles
but who’s keeping track.

I can’t even walk the halls anymore.
Ostentatious girls smiling, winking, tossing
their hair back—
pathetic.
I keep my eyes to the floor.
If I allow myself the luxury
of looking up I might
see their arms…

Firm, rigid with muscle
and that just leads to the shoulders
and neck-
broad and thick,
trembling with laughter—fear
skin so smooth—kissable—no
the face…

eyes back on the floor.
Building Service Workers missed a spot
I say to myself as the
ache below my waist
slowly dulls away.

Isolated. Home.
kickin' back, watchin’ TV with the bro.
Innocent stuff till he channel surfs
and gets called into the kitchen to wash
his dishes just as the vile remote decides
to land on MTV.
His lazy *** better wash
those dishes, cause I am not
about to dry my hands out
for him; lotion’s getting expensive these days.

***.
That man on the screen has a nice one.
No shirt—
shoulders muscle back ****
calves fingers hands arms
neck hair face –

I’m aching again,
Gotta get out of here before my
brother sees me and calls me
a girl for the way I run.

I need to get out of this life—
this isolation…

College.
I requested a single.
Living with another man would be
the death of me.
I spend my weekends with my
iPod in my ears, drowning out
the masculine shouts and laughter
of frat boys playing Ultimate
Frisbee on the Hill.
however—
I do not allow myself the
        luxury of looking…
        broad necks rippling shoulders
sweaty shirts toned legs
beautiful faces –
I can’t stare or they might
invite me to play.

There are support groups—
safe havens and potential
friends who will understand.
Maybe.
Just maybe.

First meeting.
So many men –
understanding smiling beautiful—
I think I’m gonna come back.

He welcomes me.
asks how my first year is going –
I’m not afraid to look at his face.
our fingers touch as we walk back to
our dorms—
—and I don’t feel so isolated.

I can finally throw out those dusty
Playboys now.

Ro-
mance is in the air – or
so they say at this time of year in
the heart of the Thousand Islands.

No-
thing quite welcomes summer
like the morning smell of seaweed fresh-
ly caught on some vacationer’s

pro-
pellers - excess water
draining from the boat’s engine, creat-
ing sporadic puddles up the

street.
I see no romance in
Alex Bay – too many tourists; too
old, too young – No young lovers. Not

E-
nough privacy in the
souvenir shops or bustling streets for
young lovers to embrace and watch

the
sun set or rise off the
Dock of the Bay. Mother duck leading
her ducklings towards the bread crumbs the

old-
er generation has
cast aside for them in the fishy
water. Kids just don’t know what ro-

mance
is anymore. Perhaps
because Spring is ending and not be-
ginning. I must find the romance

in
these islands. There was a
story passed down through the years of Boldt
and his lady and Hart Island.

He
re-named it Heart Island
and with his millions he made it just
that. A castle he built her, a

Play-
house for the kids. Gardens
and walkways, a Yacht House, a Tower.
All this he built for his love.

Can
you imagine, waking
up every morning to the smell, the
sounds of an island called yours? In

the
midst of the St. Lawrence,
the freshness, the cool, the sun beating
down on your grass, your estate. How

ro-
mantic an idea.
Of the one-thousand, seven-hundred
and ninety-three islands, this one

be-
longs to you and your love.
To travel by Ferry each day to
the Bay, to dine every night at

Cav-
allario’s Seafood
and Steak. Oh the wonders of Alex
Bay – I found romance after all.

(after Nikki Giovanni)

I tried to love them. Those mag-
gots that kept eating away at me.

They couldn’t wait for me to die,
crawling and chewing like it

wasn’t nobody’s business. They
said why don’t you go ahead and

die, just a waste of sin and liquor
anyway. Shielded by the absence

of light I let myself try,
try an’ love them. But

they crawled and crawled
until my eyes fell out.

Just up and fell out so I
couldn’t cry no more so

I up and let myself go. Those
maggots laughed and

laughed underneath Crocodile tears.
But I couldn’t love them. They

weren’t real people any-
way. Just no good worms

trying to hurt me.