Darkness Growing in Twilight's Desolation
An Ebony presence crossing the foggy mist
His wings unfurled will bring damnation
onto Someone I love and used to miss.

A distant dream, like a cry from the dark
The raven's shadow, an obscure forebode,
I heard from afar a dying Dog's bark,
(A minute ago, the reaper spoke.)

While a white rabbit hurries back to its hole
near the bell tower of the barren lands,
where Diamonds are extracted from the blackest coal
And miners with silver pots dig with their own hands.

I see no reflection in the golden mirror,
which makes me think that the raven is getting nearer.

I waited alone in the sterile room
for the surgery, too stunned to even

consider the word ‘goodbye’. Instead, my legs
shivered against the stirrups, as I prayed

hard for a miracle, for a giant "aha!
Just kidding!" moment from the expanding

universe that would never be large
enough to hold space for you. Pity

I received from the ones closest to me,
words murmured to soothe. Yes, I was

grateful — still, in the cloying silence
that crept in months later, I realized:

I alone was left to somehow trudge through
the thick muck of this loss. They expected me

to swim and rise above, and I did, all the while
hoping the currents would pull me under. How

could anyone else truly know what it's like
when your very own body becomes a thief

who turns         hateful           against you,
prolific cells with cold fury driving your demise

to ****** up the very thing
you wanted more than life itself?

It didn't matter,
for he could smell the sea
and thought it just enough
to season the past,
the remembrance,
slowly curling
in the flames at his feet.

Mysterious girl
the snowdrop child,
buried in spring, etched in stone
in a churchyard corner she sleeps alone,
many greedy winters have gobbled up her name
she was never an enigma
because we loved her just the same

I Should Have Followed You  

"Can I still call you Dorothea?"—even though the black and white lines in the paper reduce you to the habit you wore, arrange you into silence, a name and surname surrendered to the cloistering of lilies. Somewhere beyond this obituary, the grown children you once taught trace grief into their office desks, their minds recalling your half-remembered lessons. The others—those who once marched beside you—remember the compadre who chose devotion over struggle, who vanished into the ghost dust of old revolutionary dreams.  

Once, you were a believer who marched along Che and Fidel, a woman with a true north compass. You were never reckless, never a ghost in Havana’s dusk. You spent your nights writing, sealing letters to revolutionaries. You drank in hope like sugarcane.  

Then, the cause hardened. The slogans lost their breath. When Fidel called the people gusanos (worms) in a moment of drunkenness, you knew you must leave the revolution and Cuba behind. It was a certainty.  

You rooted yourself among the Miami exiles. We met on campus, arguing over a political opinion piece you wrote for the college newspaper. I argued that the Bay of Pigs operation was necessary. You wrote that it was a stupid exercise in democratic colonialism and was doomed to failure. And it was.  

Our love was a bickering affair. My adolescent jokes, mocking what I thought were your misplaced beliefs, chipped our foundation. I believed I was never lost. But I was orbiting a center I refused to name. After the revolution betrayed your faith, you retreated into a steady, quieter certainty—Jesus. He told you to press your palms into the smallest child’s hands. "Teach them lessons in your authentic voice," the command.  

I should have followed you. I could have stepped over the doubt that swelled between us, made a church of our mornings, sheltered in your certainty—if only you laughed more. If only I’d prayed less in jest.  

Now, my fig grows stubborn at my window, its roots strong, its love silent, and I, too, am nearing the end. I would light a candle, Dorothea—but what god still takes offerings from men like me? I will leave a hundred dollars in the box instead, fold your name into my palm, and call this devotion.

You looked so peaceful in your sleep,
When your dreams were the closest they’ll ever be.
Your fingers only grazed the seams
Of a world filled with endless possibility.

The birds still sing, the rivers still flow-
It seems that nothing stops for no one around here.
Your favourite flower sits on the sill;
It knows, somehow, that the sun is due, at any old time.

Although you left so many of us behind,
You left us with a view and it's a beautiful view.
But it would be better shared, with you.
Nevertheless, it's a beautiful view.

I'll meet you when I close my eyes.
You're not so clear there, but it's the closest that I can be.
I look for answers in the sky,
To questions that burn in the front row of my mind.

The sun still shines, the stars still glow-
It seems that nothing stops for no one, anywhere.
I play your favourite song on repeat;
I can almost hear you singing along, for old times’ sake.

Although you left so many of us behind,
You left us with a view and it's a beautiful view.
But it would be better shared, with you.
Nevertheless, it's a beautiful view.

The autumn rain is falling
    Like teardrops from mine eyes;
I cannot help recalling
    With sobs and lingering sighs
               My Fugliana.

The days returning never,
    The golden days of yore,
I thought would live forever,
    Yet gone fornevermore
               Is Fugliana.

With rue my heart is laden;
    L'amour peut être amer.
Nor any rose-lipt maiden
    Was e'er so fair as fair
               Fair Fugliana.

I hold a pen
              It’s yours
It won’t write for me
Suit my hand
My words
My mood
Even if it did
                 I think memory
              Is best left within
Rather than releasing ink
That’s beyond written expression