I swear her eyes were the ocean
a world unparalleled humming behind her eyelids
offering but a seldom glimpse
when briny streams soaked her cheeks
delicate sand entwines my ankles
creamy shells pepper the shore
her laughter glides within the salty breeze
combing my hair most gently
I miss her so, but I fret not
for there is one thing I always knew
a deep-sea soul surpasses land
and she swims at ease
where she belongs
as tides lull and waves become whispers
her ocean eyes smile back at me

Mmm, the sound babies make
before they know how to speak.
Small murmurs in the dark, waiting for light through the window.
I try to follow the recipe:
Hazelnut, flour, pretense.
Stir, stir, stir.

I hear the radio from the living room:
Silent night, o holy night
My mother sleeps on the sofa,
and she’ll sleep until the light comes through the window.
Coffee sloshes against the back of my teeth like whistling wind on a train through Mumbai, and I hear the voice in the back of my head:
Take your mother to India before she dies.

Eggs, butter, time: whip and stir.
I am trying myself to bake the cake for my mother’s birthday. She deserves so much.
I think of the summer in the south
The neighbor with the baby
The mother wailing
I can’t do this I can’t do this
And I hear my mother’s voice in the back of my head:
If you want something done right,
do it yourself.

I see you in the drunken man on the bus, singing hits
from the 60s,
I hear you when a man near your age belittles me, over a
job he knows nothing about,
I feel you when that initial rejection from someone hits, craving
validation you failed to gift me,
craving to be enough,
I smell you as friends open bottles of cheap ale, a scent
embedded into my bloodstream,
I miss you when I see a father and his child playfully race in the
park over the road,
I'm always wanting what I don't have.

I'll never see it's like again;
The springtime coming to life
In my grandmothers back yard,
The birds singing, insects humming,
Sun dappled camouflage on the pond.
One mid-morning, mid-mourning,
Dreaming of love lost,
Hoping for hope.
It's funny, how young love is like childhood,
Gone before you truly value it,
Only cherished after the fact.
Only, cherish that fact,
Value it, before it's gone.
Humor your heart, like a child,
Hope for hope,
Dream of love!
And some mid-morning, quit mourning,
Let your camouflage fall, feel the sun,
Let the birdsong bring you back
To the wonder of childhood!
Love the autumn of life,
You'll never feel it's like again.

With overflowing hearts
a man and a woman
younger than I am now
watch their kids’ fascination grow
opening a paper square to show a busy sleigh.
For now, they can avoid the fact
that the thing that keeps
the young girl’s hands warm in the picture
is called a ****.

Is it another year so soon?
My little man, my dear big boy
as time goes on it begins to wound
yet still there remains a lasting joy.
Surprise hugs and silly kisses
shrink my world to you and I
and time’s wounding power decreases
as you teach me to deny
all I have and all I desire
to give it up, to self forget.
This is a truth that reaches higher,
to become content as vignette

As a woman, I have always
felt the pressure to procreate.
And if I succeed,
well, I better be the best mother I can be.
But what if, I’m scared
Of the pressures of social media.
That the moms that populate the page
will always be better than me.
That I may spread
my infected genes.
That maybe, right now, the world is
just a scary place to be.
But what if, I decide
to do things for me?
Does that deserve
to be guilty?