In the mornings
when I’m alone
sometimes I pray
accidentally.

When the rain
sounds like children
folding and unfolding
paper. My whole world
is a fish that swims away.

The wrinkles are not like skin,
but I still feel like I’ve pulled
a face over my body. They
can’t have it back, because
I’ve gotten used to it.
I kind of like it.
I like the warmth, and the eyes.
I am particularly fond of the eyes.

When the car alarms were
the symphony of downfall
and the metaphor of my nightmare.
I could hoist the face
on a headboard mast.

The wind would climb through
those eyes. Those fine eyes.
I would sink into the cold of hope.

At night
I hear them groaning
from the train yards.
It reminds me of dull
fireworks soaring towards
the eyes of children.
Or is it just the train
the wheels against rail
and tilting of cars in wind
It is the train
knowing what was done.

For them it was
a wonderful promise of water
on skin. Of water
and wet lips. The soldiers
laughed and tore off
their uniforms.
In the splashing everyone
lost themselves in
forgetting. They were in the
first pew watching
a baptism. The armbands heard
laughter as they grew
heavy with water.

The candles are hard
to watch. The burning reminds
me of all the little fires,
each one was a village. Closer,
where the burning fades into
blue. It reminds me of the eyes.
I can’t even see the candle.
The man’s head is pressed against
a tree. This is where God lives,
but the man has finished knocking.
His face melts down the door.

~for V~*

She misses her childhood
she hides this missing
behind her eyes. I wish
her childhood was there.
Somewhere, too.

It was when she saw her hands
holding magic. And that world
fell into this one.

When fear entered before courage
and she had no idea that everyone
was so scared.

It was when she let
all fall. They didn’t thunder
on the ***** carpet. They
didn’t even bounce.

She stared at the creases
in her hands, terrified
of what they were.

~for V~*


The rain makes the maracuyá shine wet.
The rain makes the tamarind fur glow.
It’s easy to say that she never ate the tamarinds
but it was always more about the chinolas
and how they tasted of sunlight
in the morning before the dew woke.

When you make a mess
and both laugh.
When her hair gets caught in the dial of your watch.
When your glasses scratch her clavicle.
When hands are too cold
and goosebumps ripple up thighs.
When bodies knock
into furniture, and you have to stop.
When you spill water on the nightstand.
When you wobble the lamp
and shadows lean across the bed.
When her flesh dials a coworkers’ numbers on your cell
or the phone just rings.
When your “Harry Potter” audiobook plays on shuffle.
When church is in seven hours.
When the shower is too hot
and you jump back out onto the duck-shaped mat,
she laughs at you, calls you a wimp.
When the bath is too cold and the upper drain
gurgles like a drowning obese man,
there are never enough bubbles.
When she tastes like soap.
When you talk about your days and thoughts
wander to tangential curves and your mutual
acquaintance Steve, you forget what is happening.
When clothing gets stuck on heads, twist of feet,
elbow crooks, and in the wheels of an office chair.
When it is still on your floor, and your grandma visits
at lunch she smiles saying you found a nice girl.
When you try something new.
When you miss.
When straps and buckles never
unstrap or unbuckle.
When your fingers panic,
they are charged like blades.
When the moon.
When you’re late.
When you don’t want to put your bra back on.
When you hair is off kilter like a bonsai tree.
When it was almost like dancing.
When someone sneezes.
When you hiccup.
When she breathes.
When drool.
When scratches.
When bitten.
When church is in four hours.
When the laundry tumbled on.
When the oven started to smoke.
When you forgot.
When tickled.
When kicking.
When hurting.
When doors unlocked.
When his belt buckle shocks your navel.
When arms ache and legs cramp.
When curled the next morning in each other.
When it’s cold across the room, and
your clothes are so far.
When you miss church.
When eyelashes rub each other.
When the sun.
When you try to talk.
When moaning.
When sighing.
When screaming.
When getting back.
When breaking apart.
When getting back.
When your lips smash together like trains.
When you fold the cloths after.

And sometimes after all of it
he would curl up with him
and in tear and tears and tears
squeeze him.
He would whimper
into folds of fur
and grab them like a ship's rigging
to sail into abyss after abyss
and heave after heave
splash after splash
he felt the water upon his skin
like forgiveness. Simply,
the dog never budged.
He breathed life
up and down like
wave into wave.

59% of Africa practices Islam. Five times
throughout the day, the giraffe’s heads
point toward Mecca. The hippos have
the hardest times turning. Sometimes
they don’t make it, and that is when
the gazelles laugh in high leaps.
70% of them laugh.

A third of the world say they believe
in Christ. Half of them capitalize
his name in text messages. A quarter
like to write it as JC. The rest
are too scared to ever write it down.
Or say it out loud. Sometimes
They are the ones that pray.

95% Say thank you.
76% I’m sorry.
67% Good job.
61% I need help.
47% Wait in silence.

346% of us are looking for someone.
I think those the 47 percent waiting
know where he is. Probably a cave.

We know this because of the man
with the clipboard that waits outside
the church. “What were you praying about?”

Thoughts: I was asking god to help me **** the neighbor lady.
Words: I was asking forgiveness.

The man with the clipboard knows all
writes down that they were
praying in a time of need.

When 32% are reincarnated. 70%
of us will crawl. Half of our
bodies will bruise, and exactly
one part of us will remember.

Then in the silence that the 47 percent
left. 47 quiet answers will arrive

to the other 53.
They will shouting
their praise. Every one
percent of ourselves
will never hear
God kneel and pray.