White knuckles, clenched
ping-pinging on textured glass.
Unfazed, he turns his cheek,
followed closely by his deaf ear.
So I stay
stuck, hopeless,
tugging on some hem,
with a relentless, gut-twisting
hunger to be acknowledged,
to be comforted and cradled,
to be lulled and hushed—
pleading him
to poke some holes in the lid of this jar.

I used to oxygenate
my blood so beautifully—
flush my pale skin to pink, press it against yours,
and breathe.
When I had air, I used to inhale so deeply.
I used to live.
I used to conquer.
I would wake myself before the dawn,
if only
to brighten his dark corners.

I used to breathe before life in this jar.
I used to catch his glances and
celebrate as the reason for his smiles.
Before life in this jar, I could reach him,
and he would reach me.
He would pick me up in his smooth palm and
hold me in my place in the sun.
With warmed cheeks,
I’d kiss him softly on the forehead
and thank him in wide, grinning whispers
for the lift.

Before life in this jar
he would never find me
gasping for the strength to
make breathy apologies simply for existing.

He would never find me enjoying
such a slow motion asphyxiation
like I do
as I live life
in this jar.

Sometimes, I believe you were conceived in the womb of *Aphrodite
the subtle migrations of your mouth and tongue
manipulating my body in ways
that would make a courtesan blush

let me worship at the altar between your thighs

Sometimes, I think you are a descendant of Moses
your fingertips guiding me into warm places
your thighs and valleys so divine
I can't help but get lost in them

your lips and hidden places always causing exodus

Sometimes, I imagine you as a rose
your petals opening gracefully for select eyes
beautiful, in your surrender
your thorns, a barrier to most, yet

I would brave them, just to drink the dew from between your buds

Sometimes, I just need to know that you're mine
nothing more & nothing less than what  **you are

They were her hands,
Destined for pleasure.
Fingers tied knots
Ringed with gold,
And pointed the way
For growing old.

Palms held petals,
Bows, ribbons
And pages;
Wrists watched
The measured time
Of keys and games;
Wrapped packaged treasures,
Opened doors.

They were small
Determined hands,
Covered in flour
White skin
Powdering her face,
Inviting
Me in.

Hands held in supplication,
Joy and despair;
Hands in need
Of salvation.

Like leaves on
Autumn branches
That branches
Can't hold,
Her hands
Lost their grip,
Then closed
And fell cold.

A response to Joe's poem,
Young Poets Write For Me.*


I touched an old
Tree once, asking  
About its leaves.
They replied.

I'm just a lonely little leaf
So small, so insignificant
But in my dreams, I hold belief
That I could be magnificent

My skin would gleam of emerald green
To ward off snow and beckon spring
My fettered branch would welcome teems
Of chorus birds to dance and sing

My life would know such happy times
As wild winds lift me up for laughs
To flutter onto railway lines
And halt the trains upon their tracks

Yet in the morning, when I wake
From slumbered dreams, I find relief
In knowing god made no mistake
With me, his lonely little leaf

They say
rêverie
made
the human heart.

I say
we first unfolded
our heart
gazing at trees.

Hypnotically
we watch the dancing leaves,
waving green,
flamboyant canvas,
single brown hanging on.

Delusionally,
we learn the longing,
we portrait our storms,
we are taught transitoryness.

Is this not
why, as a child,
we handed leaves
- the most special ones -
to eternity,
in between the pages
of our favourite books?