life was so dull
until she swept in,
a beautiful hurricane,
rendering me speechless
with her love and kindness.
oh god, she was so kind.
her heart beat for everyone else,
not an inch of her soul
belonged to her.
she was one of those people
who you could just trust.
you could look into her eyes
and you knew everything would be okay.
she saved my life
and so many others
in so many ways.
i owe her everything
but i'm too scared
to tell her
how much she means to me.

i
love
you

There is no experience in the world
      that I cherish more
            than hearing my father play the piano.

It's imperfect and beautiful and
                                                       sounds
                                                          ­     like
                                                            ­      home.

The notes are often choppy, and there are pauses
      as his mind turns over what keys to play next --
            sort of like our lives as a family.

We're awkward
      and have
            broken             periods,
but altogether we're making music.

Every breath a note,
      every laugh a chord,
every      "I love you"      a harmony
            that
only our family
      can hear.

And there's staccato! arguments,

and there's fortissimo days with pianissimo nights,

and there's repeat on repeat on repeat,
      making our lives seem
      constantly       andante.

But life is like a series of randomly placed fermatas --
unpredictable, yet musically enriched because of it.

            And I wouldn't want it any other way.

Silence measuring pain
from the loss of my daughter at such
a young age

destruction started the year before
six month into her illness
finding life becoming undone

Doctors telling her not much time
left tears being shed
scarcity
of living
not know what she could do

changes furiously made
no doubt left on what she
had to accomplish

love increased inside her soul
wanting her last wishs to be completed
before she left this world

All were completed just in time
from finding her husband
to be with her in the final hour

Little Richard was brought to her side
she knew he was there and one part of
her was able to be at rest

Last day of her life in the hospital room
leaving a short time

I went to make final preparations for her
to be at rest
When I got back still breathing for a few
moments
I said I love you she knew my voice
just one last breath given by her
Angie was going home.

The "good child"
oh yes yes yes
I am mommy and daddy's shining star
I cook and clean and I am so very polite
good grades, and don't talk down to my superiors
oh yes, mommy I am your good little girl
of three children I am the "good child"
until your backs are turned
drink, smoke, party and play with strange lips on mine and strange hands in strange places
I am the "good" one
with a secret girfriend
and secret scars
and a secret eating disorder
but don't you worry your grown up little heads about that
just keep telling people I'm the "good child"
and I'll be "good" enough to play along

I'm a chemist too, Walter. Don't believe me? Just take a look at my blood. This iron, albuterol sulfate, acetaminophen, all this? I did it.

Don't force my hand, sweetheart.
Don't bite the poet that feeds.
Don't lick the flames that keep that rage you have going, you'll lose your identity.
Don't make your mother scream if you don't want to count bruises.
Don't be too soft, child.
Don't be too ugly, boy/girl/parasite.

Your God's a lion, recently fed, drowsy.*

I wish you'd believe me when I say I'm sick, Dad. My tongue's falling out.

If I ever were to describe myself, I would be despondent.
Never happy when alone.
When with others, I would be absorbed into their feelings.
But really, my feelings couldn't be faced.

If I ever could depict my past, The painting would be bland.
A lone grey figure struck against a white wall.
The child without love nor maternal instinct.
Paying for survival with absolute compliance.

If I ever told you what I was thinking right now, I'd be lying.
Surrounded by a thousand paper target in a warehouse.
Suffering through your interrogation.
And you dare call it conversation.

I remember shouting at myself.
Decreeing my own hell.
Whispering in that sullen terrifying voice.
"You are the epitome of nothing, unable to love or be loved."

In truth, I was loved.
I was loved and cared for.
My love, was conditional, it was always paid for.
And for that payment I will never love back.

If I ever wrote you a poem, disregard it.
My words are better off in the sea.
Closing the book on my heart.
You, who loved me.
I, who needed you.

We rock together in the chair-
your morning tempest nestled into the crook of my arm.
I wait patiently for the edge of your storm
for clouds and cries to ease away and my coffee to cool.

What do you think about in the quiet calm?
Do you think? Or do you simply feel?
Comfortable and complete, I wonder about you
and the person you will be.

What do you see
when you stare
at the wall, the window,
the side of my face?

Colors, shapes, shadows, light- captivate you.
I enjoy watching you try to figure it all out.
Everything new,
nearly too much to take in.

Slowly- the sights, warmth, and motion
overwhelm you.
Your eyes close-
although you fight it.

We breathe together.
I hold you close,
lost in the wonder of your face-
so familiar and strange.

Red and blue have been blasting through my door
roaring and romping a mighty chorus
stomping through my days
both dying to feel me up
I feel hardy when they love
but they are not mine to keep.

They come to me as scarves and scales
as patches to post over my bodies
and lay
muddy and weak
myself to be seen.
These colors flash secrets of superficiality
savor the feeling of severed psyche
with puzzlingly pieced anatomy.

Blue boiling with my boyhood
my mind over smooth shoulders swells.
I stand beside my dad - his sharp eyes teach me
the game of absorption and receiving.

His eyes trap a moment
hold it up by its collar
(look dad, no hands!)
shake loose
collecting hidden tokens
fiddling,
flipping them in his fingers
a trophy of bladed knowledge.

But my father is color blind.
He does not know which threads to cut
when I plead
*help me detangle