When I dream of you,
The air is heavy in my lungs
And the floor slides up
To meet my knees.
There is broken glass on the bed, but that’s
Alright,
I’m already bleeding.

I didn’t fall in love with his mind, or his eyes, or his voice. I fell in love
with the way he could take a common question such as “what is love?”
and give me the only answer that could
break the shackles tethering me to anyone but him.
I fell in love with the way the quizzical clouds rolled over the stormy blue skies
that held all the things I did not yet know about myself, how
with one long gaze,
he raised just as many questions as he gave me answers.
I fell in love with invisible safety he effortlessly breathed
across the ivory peaks and valleys of his mouth
and one crooked tooth on the left.

He didn’t fall in love
with my heart, or my soul, or my will. He fell in love with the way
I never questioned driving across town each day
in a gas guzzling truck that gets a whopping 17 miles to the gallon.
He fell in love with the ego boost accompanying the unceasing
words cooed in affection. He fell
in love with the strings I tied around my own wrists
when I handed him the reins.

He didn’t vanish
like I expected after the last 400 kisses and prolonged embraces.
His voice didn’t sound like a stranger’s
when he called 10 minutes later.
His presence didn’t leave my life.
It remains, popping up in unexpected flashbacks,
but his physical being left me behind,
and I could feel his body leaving mine like
a magnet resisting the separation of its companion.

His presence doesn’t leave me
raw and unable to breathe like a bare body
enduring the cold winds of a winter rain. Instead,
I am forever ****** with every “what-if”
appearing like a seemingly benign tumor, but only
I can feel the malignant pressure as I lay awake at 1 in the morning
feeling the vibrations of the violent shakes
that have so tragically married the tears he used to evoke. I am cursed
to search for the one that will outshine the bright beacon of my past,
drawing me back in like a senseless insect toward the deadly light.

He is the one that has found a home in me,
the one that time can’t erase.

Moon marked and touched by sun
my magic is unwritten
but when the sea turns back
it will leave my shape behind.
I seek no favor
untouched by blood
unrelenting as the curse of love
permanent as my errors
or my pride
I do not mix
love with pity
nor hate with scorn
and if you would know me
where the restless oceans pound.

I do not dwell
within my birth nor my divinities
who am ageless and half-grown
and still seeking
my sisters
witches in Dahomey
wear me inside their coiled cloths
as our mother did
mourning.

I have been woman
for a long time
beware my smile
I am treacherous with old magic
and the noon's new fury
with all your wide futures
promised
I am
woman
and not white.

She sits there everynight,
different chair,
same screen.
All she does is wait for one word,
a simple phrase,
just to remind her that she's in his thoughts,
something so she'll know.
Thoughts flit across the keyboard,
while insecurity takes away her freedom.
"Girl, you're super cute...
...of course I still care."

I miss you
You always smelled like flowers
Like a woman
I wanted that scent
so I could breathe it in every day and feel you
picture you
put in on and become you
I still want to become you
You're perfect
Your ***** blond hair
Your moon-shaped glasses
Your shoulder bag
Your salads
Your smile
Your quick wit  
Those rebellious ears that stick out
Just like you do
In a crowd
The freckles and tiny hairs on your arms
Your slim fingers
So perfect
So immaculate
So precise
Your forest green cardigans and white dress shirts
Your tweed jacket and pants
Your ancient blackberry
Your voice
Smooth as milk and honey
Your exercises
Your books
Your mind

Your ring
Which you no longer wear
What do divorced men do with their rings?
Do they make love to them?

let's hang a ceramic rifle on the wall,
(blue and white, don't forget the flower designs)
next to my china plate collection.

We won't slam the door anymore
(imagine the noise as it shatters to the ground),
but at least our rabbit-killing neighbors
can know we're one of them.

Embracing
I, tugging at his hair
(wishing I could tug at his belt)
him, paced and guided,
guiding his hand lower
I wish I could feel him tighten
I felt myself loosen
Almost collapsing into his arms
Almost gasping
Almost neglecting knowing of where I was
(where I wish we were,
under my sheets,
him between my sheaths
moving like the waves
to the rhythm of the moon
drift sideways, in and out
tensing, pausing, the sun almost breaking through,
sea foam contracts and disappears
the waves in his eyes
dilute, dilate.
whilst mine, with body
retire with the satiating taste of his lips
on my own)
– where was I again?

As a child
I had a fear that one could
become homeless
fairly easily.
I'd see a homeless man on the corner
and wonder how he got that way.
"Mom?"
"What Daniel?"
"What if I grow up to be homeless? Like that man on the corner?"
"Mijo...I'd never let that happen..."
She did put my mind at ease,
but at the same time
I wondered
is that what the homeless man's Mom
told him
when he was a little boy?