Curls frame my face the same way they framed yours, and now it is hard to look in a mirror.
Curls that you loved and
Curls that you made, you said I was a lucky girl to look like you. That truth
Curls around my throat and makes it hard to breathe. The way your arms would
Curl around me is no longer comforting. I mourn and I grieve, but never can I leave the
Curls that remain with me. My fingers
Curl around the bit of you that I have left. I hate admitting when I’ve wept.
Curling my pride, making it small, I hate more to admit when I haven’t wept at all.

I like the quiet
Monasteries
A few books
Little libraries

Kindly women
Aging priests
Kamakura snow
Mystic East

       release

when all else leaves
the monsoon doesn’t.
in the absence of
the world, I smell
july in the breeze
coercing me gently
like a grandmother
with a treat
when my eyes dart around
and I’m too blind to see
when all else leaves
the monsoon doesn’t
like a friend from sixth grade
peeping through the front door
with umbrella hands
and puddles for feet