When my father died
For the third time,
He left behind a backpack

It was dusty and black in the back
Of my mother’s black trunk
It stunk
Of cigarettes, desperation,and neglect
For weeks I had stared at it
Not daring to touch it
Not daring to feel his absence

But today was no ordinary day
Today I felt brave
Today I picked up that old backpack, opened it, and reached inside
My hands stumbled on: old papers,
Wrinkled and adorned with coffee stains,
A rusty kitchen knife,
An unopened package of red pills

I searched and searched that old, dusty, sack—
My eyes skimmed over the  scribble scrabble written upon the papers
My fingertips ran across the dirt-caked
T-shirts
I searched and searched that old, dusty sack
for an “I love her”
for an “I’m sorry”
for a “I tried to call her back”

But I found in that old sack
Useless items that don’t love me back

I looked at that sack,
and it looked at me back,
And I tossed that old sack
without looking back
Cause’ neither did he.

At Night
I dream of My Mother’s Embrace
Oh, that woman
Skin and soul like earth:
So soft it nearly crumbles
At the slightest touch
Crooked smile like
God’s star,
Pervading me with light
Every time the corners of her lips curve upwards towards heaven

At Night
I touch myself to thinning, silvered, hair
Bushy mustaches
Old jokes withering away
Like the crunchy leaves from the frail
Trees of Autumn,
To slow dances
Under the moonlight,
Flashing my toothless smile
As you hold my small, brown hand in yours,
As I grasp onto your large waist,
There, in that pale, faint moonlight  you look down upon me
As if I am the most precious thing on earth
As if your slimy heart lies on my palms
This I dream
Of you cherishing me as if I am yours
Cherishing me Because I am yours
As my eyelids start to open
And dawn sheds himself on my tear-stricken face
Reality sinks in its claws
You’re not here, father
I will never feel  your embrace

I want to be the brown goddess of a man’s dreams, both wet and dry
Wet like  brown skin fresh out the shower; wet brown skin like the melting cacao bar that dissipates upon his tongue. At night, he’ll dream of me; his pasty white hands sojourning along a mountain of brown like fresh snowfall upon an earthy hill.