A Japanese practice of aesthetics,
broken pottery pieced back together
with golden lacquer, the shimmer
doing the opposite of obscuring repair;
the gold creating vein-like patterns that say,
“Look at me, I have survived!”
The philosophy is simple:
A damaged vessel is still beautiful;
a body that has broken
is not worthless
just because it is a body that has broken.

She and I believe in love
the way a Jew and a Christian believe
in God. But is it the same God?
Was this the same love?
Her love believes two bodies
must be complete before coming together.
My love stands ready with golden lacquer,
not present for just a complete whole,
but also the broken pieces,
the cracks in between.
That which is damaged is still beautiful.
Let’s learn to heal our faults
together and shimmer.
Look at us, we have survived!

But sometimes, no matter the effort,
interfaith just doesn’t work;
we did not survive
for no other reason than simply
a difference of belief.
And now there are new broken pieces,
the crimson weeping from fresh cracks
is not the gold I was looking for

On a sunny winter day
when jackets held little heat
weather forecasts sent us up the mountain,
our first trip to the snow.
Except snowmen had already melted like a western witch,
snow angels had fallen from grace.
We were left sloshing through sad puddles
ankle-deep in disdain for weathermen.

There were no laughs between us,
her demeanor solemn
as if in a funeral dirge for snowmen.
It was our last trip to the snow.
It was our last trip.

As she often expected,
I apologized for mistakes not my own.
But perhaps Channel 7 News was merely
forecasting an icy blizzard in her heart.
There was no shelter from her storm.

I have watched leaves die,
fall to the earth to be crunched underfoot,
trees left naked, waiting
for another season to dress them
only for the leaves to die again, ad nauseum.
And, yet, it is always winter
in my heart and my steps heavy
like trudging through snow.
But there is never any snow
--never a winter wonderland--
just cold shivers, a resistance
to moving on.

Can a thing have a ghost
if it was never a living, breathing thing?
I am haunted by us,
not just by you, but the equation of you and I.
I am besieged by specters,
not just traces of your skin on mine or
the taste of your lips on my tongue or
the sound of your laughter around every corner,
but even by my own laughter chasing yours.
My own smile is a ghost, now;
as is my sense of peace.
I can see your smile in the sunrise, still;
see our own faces replace those
of people holding hands and embracing
as if I am the ghost,
some cosmic ****** peeping in our own life.
And all too frequently I am on my knees
screaming into dark days,
except they all feel like dark days
and even darker nights.
I shout out to whatever power is listening
to just bring you back to me
or exorcise me of these ghosts.
Shouting so loudly, so earnestly
that my throat goes hoarse
and I can't speak for days.

I’m covered in bruises and scars.
I’m not supposed to talk about it, but
I’ve started my own fight club
beating myself up over what
could have been done differently.
Could I have just tried even harder?
Could I have given more than my everything?
Could I have done anything to save us?
I have a new black eye.

Deep down, I know there is no finger to point;
we are not an earthquake, there is no finding fault.
It was not my fault.
It was not your fault.
It was no one’s fault.
We were a thrift store puzzle.
A used thing. An abraded thing.
Pieces were missing, torn,
some just didn’t fit.
Our picture would never be complete
and that’s just how it is, sometimes.
Neither of us are to blame—I know this.

Yet, I still can’t shake the what-ifs,
the spirit of our good times.
I am cursed.
But even if there was a number to call,
some sort of agency or team to come to my rescue,
where would these ghostbusters even aim
their proton guns and how much of me
would they take with them?
Do I really want all the memories of us erased?
Would a spotless mind pour sunshine onto my winter?

If only Doc Brown would drive up in his DeLorean,
I wouldn’t question the impossibility of his offer.
Despair pairs well with improbable hope.
I would certainly take that ride, risk
getting struck by lightning,
slamming into a wall at 88mph,
going back in time over and over, if need be
all so I could learn how
to fix an us that couldn’t be repaired.

I hate your shoes,
the way you walk in them,
for how they put you in my way.
I hate your face.
I hate the sound of your breath before you speak;
I hate your voice and your language.
I hate how you spend your free time,
what you do in the privacy of your own home;
I hate you for not having a home.
I don’t care how often you bathe–
you’re *****, your smell disgusts me.
You disgust me.
I have no gavel or mastery of law
but **** right it’s my right
to judge you, judge you
not for the content of your character
but the content of melanin in your skin,
judge you for your father’s blood,
the sins of your children,
your womb and your lewdness,
your dreams and your waistline,
for the lovers you bring to bed.
I’ll burn down temples to share with you
the light of my God because
like you, yours is *****.
I will beat you ****** for the beliefs
that we do not have in common.
All men are not created equal,
you are beneath me.
I will judge you for your undeserved freedom.
This land is better off stripping the rights of all
than to allow the mistake of giving you any.
How dare you **** the blood for my land,
my children, my people.
I will do grotesque things in the name of hate.
I will do grotesque things in the name of purity.
And you need to be purified
and I hate you
because my God hates you.
Oh, you of little faith:
Repent! Or die.
There can be no peace
when sinners like you are so wrong.

She was a dazzling display
of gravity-defying daring and grace.
Soaring and contorting over our heads,
this dancer in the sky hypnotized.

I called her my little bird,
but she was both daredevil and magician.
I encouraged her to new heights,
to shake hands with the moon;
and if ever she fell, I would catch her

but I was nothing more than her safety net.
While I wanted her to love my embrace,
her goal was to never fall into my arms.

Somewhere between excitement and the ground,
a young boy loses control of his feet.
Quickly, he stands back up; the tumble
seeming only to scuff his pride-
until a precarious glance down at a scraped knee
cause his eyes to burst like water balloons.
Somewhere between our first hello and the ground,
I lost control of my own heart.
And now, long after last call, I still pour drinks
hoping to sleep in until after the mourning.
For months, I’ve been telling blank pages
that I’ll write, that I’m alright; but
I can’t put pen to paper without remembering
the last time I saw you. I fell
for you like skydiving without a parachute.
This is so much more than a scraped knee—
I’m trying so hard not to see the damage.

Some people ache for pain,
yearn for the burn of rope on their wrists,
lust for the sting of ******* on their back,
go so far as to pay for their own subjugation.
I am not the sort
yet here I am bound
and flogged
and utterly dominated.
I didn’t ask for this,
didn’t go looking for this.
I just didn’t know there were any pictures of you left.

I tried to distract myself with a movie the other night,
something tragic, something ridiculously catastrophic,
something to say it could always be worse.
On screen, Earth shuddered
violently, a magnitude
never felt before. Even my own walls quaked
with the boom of the speakers to get the point across.
All of our monuments toppled,
all things we built to be proud of crumbled,
and there was yelling and fright
while in every direction people were dying.
If Hollywood is to be believed, this
is how the end will come—a natural disaster
so unnatural in its magnitude
with a penchant for destruction.
And it will not come quietly.
It will not come quietly.

But there was no deafening groan of Earth,
no terrifying rumble
no swallowing everything into its gaping maw.
No, just the empty air of unanswered questions,
a goodbye you whispered like a eulogy.
And only I crumbled.

In the most private corner of
the tiny cafeteria, a young
couple shares a meal after school.
In between washing down their burgers
with soda and making out, she speaks.
Babysitting—her newest hobby
(And not just for the money).
On and on she talks about how fulfilling
watching a child is… as if she isn’t one.
He chokes catching her meaning:

“If the ****** breaks, I won’t mind.”

As if having children is just as easy as
pouring invisible tea for a table of dolls.
Premature parenthood—she’s so eager;
he drowns the idea in another mouthful of soda.
Tears end the conversation; though, not
his fault—she checked her watch, tensely.
Mother is an hour late picking up
her daughter from junior high.