my mother
is always visible
speaking what she thinks is right
mostly I listen
she does not look like me
she is more talkative
she is always unambiguous
but we are alike
we have the same habits
we share books, clothes
and affinity for the same television characters
my art reflects my mother's art
and sometimes her, herself

the prevalent literary subject
the inevitable centerpiece
the time worn muse
it is heartache, she sings
drenched in moonlight
resting alone, she is seen
she is sought after
her hands are delicate,
her body weak
heartache is growing older
sterile to the world
but we still search for her
she sings in us
sweet bleeding
for artists around
take pieces of her and
exhibit them in their own way
heartache has grown grey

i hope you won't see
the jealousy-fire
that is aflame behind my eyes

i think you're unaware
about how much
i'd like to run my hands
through your flaxen hair,
pretty boy

is it too much to ask
to lay next to you
tracing your spine

with the scent in the air
of sleep and laziness
of softness felt and seen

in silence enough
to hear a pin drop
and match breaths exhaled

a body, two
intertwined and separated
go slow, and without speech.

drowning in the ocean
that surrounds the black sphere of his pupil
his skin is cream fabricated
I trace his freckles gently with a fingertip
when he doesn't mind
as velvet compliments denim
we are together, flowing
he smells like sugary breakfast cereal
and salt water wind
he reminds me of sprawling dutch tulip fields
clean, unseeingly delicate
his lips taste like raspberries ripened by sunlight
we watch the moon, intrigued
I sift rocky sand through my fingers
and watch you in the waves
loving with eyes open to flaws
and heart beats matched

heart open far

honeyed love seeps from me

for the things i see,

his hair dark and swept away

and his collarbones' shadow

and his skin tone: olive

he sees but is blind

to the things i find most beautiful about myself

like the curls that dangle in front of my forehead

and the freckles splattered across my cheeks

his gaze only falls short

but maybe i love him the same

speak slowly
as cherry juice stains your chapped lips
in the haze
where hours vanish
wake late
to eat toast with no plate
in the same clothes as before
the days are a blur
laugh lazily
with your head tipped back
and unbrushed teeth
the breeze laps at our t-shirts
stare constantly
because the sky won't be as beautiful later
because everything is in bloom
and your love might change

SOPHIE'S EYES
are garden soil after heavy rain
a puddle in black concrete
the eyes you divulge to
in confidence
sympathizing and heart-whole
a star-absent night
charcoal blurred fingers
an chasm
between her eyelids
MY MOTHER'S EYES
are the beach grass of summer
seaweed pulled from the surf
in them i see growth
a lawn darkening in sunshine
the plants potted
she waters
and we pick the leaves from
BEN'S EYES
are the skin of limes
pond water
pearlescent and diverted
he laughs
without moving his lips even slightly
a blinking, highlighted green
street lights reflecting off
a stange car passing by
PAIGE'S EYES
are a cloudless sky
roughened ice
cold, empirical beauty
the ocean glaciated
the petals of roses
glossed over by frost
if a look could ****
maybe hers would
MY GRANDFATHER'S EYES
are steely grey
the blusterous
chaos of thunder
darkening with age
the sky in a hurricane
the eyes of a hurricane