Boundless love—

I found you today

when I stumbled upon petals

I thought were lost for good.

Without a shrill, without a shutter,

they were once plucked

by hands that didn’t know

that what they held

was God's creation.

Those hands,

they didn’t know

how wildflowers bloomed

not for attention,

but to be in unison 

with God.

I thought I lost my petals.

I used to spite those hands.

Today, God proved me wrong. 

I found the petals

when I remembered 

what it was like 

to share a

boundless love.

You cannot be rid of me.

I reside in

empty chapels, 

hearses, living rooms.

I live atop 

a bed of 

waning waters, 

waxing moons.

I am alive. 

I am alive.

But the world's not ready for me.

I'm planning my arrival.

Don't worry.

I don’t show myself

but I am here.

You cannot rid me

from a world that I built.

I see you.

I know you.

Bliss!

The time has come to feel your presence.

My heart much bigger than before.

You lit me up. You did.

I mean, I did.

I’m on a bed 

with angels, at sea.

I’m writing a lullaby 

to muffle the cries 

of hydras underwater.

I wish I could sink

and hear the beasts 

that welcomed me at birth.

These woods are dark.

I'm crawling, starving.

I never meant to hurt

a soul—

but here I am,

with broken bones 

and imprints you left.

Was I really designed?

to bargain

for your favours and

your love.

I’m sulking.

under branches 

of wet desire.

I know you were right.

I’m grateful for my broken bones,

but I hate the loveless way 

in which I shattered.

I let my sorrows go

first thing this morning.

It always pays

to let them go.

And so, today, 

my heart is full.

Today, my heart is singing.

I see no bad, no good—

no caterpillars, butterflies—

only the metamorphosis—

my body buzzes—

it is my worker bees, laughing.

Gently drifting

like a golden patch

of sunshine 

on a blade of

pickled grass or

orange brick.

I wonder how it is

that I arrive, 

always,

here,

somewhere good,

somewhere with hope,

somewhere with curiosity 

for what comes next.

You tell me not to cry.

—I do.

—I do!

We walk down the aisle.

—Oh, the dress!

I watch you look away.

I look away.

You watch me look away.

It's a sunny day.

My parents mutter to themselves.

The angels bicker.

I’m alone inside a room

without a door

without a window.

There’s a light.

I flick it with my finger

and it shatters.

I hear the dead man 

tell me that I’m heading

in the wrong direction. 

But I’m not obliged to listen.

I hear. I do not listen. 

I'm remedying, pendulating.

It’s not so bad.

Some nights, I try. 

I really do.

But most nights

I don’t care. Not yet.

I want to be a girl and only then, a woman.

Or, when the remedies stop working,

I'll return to where 

the dead man stood

and I will take his place.

Tears. Growing fingernails.

Ink flowing out of my pen.

Nothing ever stops.

It makes me wonder:

Are there really cycles?

As the wise women say

and the seasons beckon

and the child is born

and born and born

and dies and dies.

Is life a cycle, or

a never-ending stream, of

falling down from Heaven,

turning in the sky.

The tender skin

on the television

of a man and woman

so in love.

I think I feel it too

until I’m laying in the bed,

like that,

but now, it’s 

dimmer 

than I remember. 

I read the book today

about the women and the wolves

and felt my strength, I did, and

when I did, a seed was planted.

I promise to water it daily.

Can I put the watering can, here?

By the window sill?

I know it’s where you 

drink your morning coffee

but this is where I sing...

under the sun. The sun!

She bathed me as a girl

and gifted me my soul,

energized my intuition,

fed me wilderness and laughter

with her golden locks.

She will help me survive you.

Then, I will bathe you too

in innocence and light.

The world is falling apart,

or coming into form.

It’s hard to tell,

but what I know is that

when looking in the mirror,

I sometimes see myself in

black and white — a photograph

found centuries later, or maybe

from the century prior.

She looks like me and is me

but I don’t feel her

— not really.

I look into my eyes 

and see two voids that look right back,

like hollow tunnels

reaching to the pit of all there is

where nothing is.

I don’t like to think about it.

Let me think about it.

When I look into the mirror

I see two voids

and both are cold as ice.

It’s loneliness I fear.

Where is the promised land of

love or light or fuck all — pleasure? 

I want to see what

smiling, wise men see,

and if I can’t,

I hope they’re wrong about

it all since I don’t 

want to be excluded.

There’s no one and everyone to blame.

In that, I’m lonely and crowded.

Clinks and new years kisses.

No one to blame.

Except those girls who stared me down

in middle school, and earlier.

Oh, and that rotten man.

But even he deserves some sympathy.

Who else?

A serious sound

comes from

your living room.

I run inside

but no one’s there

except 

your body

on the sofa

eating grapes

and crackers.

My everything-I-lack

is on another bender

of gory words

and tender bodies

falling and flailing

in the pits

while he

commands the show.

I worry I will always be alone

within your shaggy hair

and crumpled bed sheets.

My little void

now kicks into the dark —

it's hopeless.

But why would I give up?

I’d rather kick and scream —

at least there’s hope.

Enough to tie my sneakers in a double knot.

And so I’ll fight,

that’s right,

against all odds —

you tell me I have very little.

I won’t listen to you

kick and scream.

The eyes of my mother —
absent, anxious, hiding,
blushing, longing, hiding —
when she takes a beating,
when she seeks revenge,
when she’s lost within herself,
when the home she hopes she’s built
is crumbling with every step she takes
and so she chooses not to walk again.
Not yet. A few more years like this,
and she’ll be ready.

​

I too long for a love within my reach,
I too can’t find the strength
to budge myself enough.
To save us both proved not enough.

​

I wish I could tell you that I love you.
Instead, I watch my mother’s eyes.

The lethargy
of figuring it out
for months, or years,
as I review your texts
and audio recordings, still, to
find the verdict on who got it wrong,
or some days, how I could have made it right,
or really, how I will make it right,
the next time that we meet, inevitably,
dreadfully,
miserably,
hiding pain and malice in our tall, ribbed water glasses,
until the second date,
at sunrise,
baring our souls.

How does it feel

to free the cherry ribbon from your dress

only to sulk under the weight

of dry, apartment air

in which you’ve danced and laughed

and mostly cried,

making butterflies of tissues from

all the snot and tears you never really tried to stop

because it’s what you knew as comfort.