Sure, 

I've glued foam flowers.

I've even won ribbons

trembled for piano recitals

watched classmates 

run track in the scorching sun.

Sure,

I've spent Friday nights 

shopping

cooking lousy pasta

posturing to men

facing fears

writing love letters

sitting behind closed doors

throwing coins

conversing with demons

making lists of who I want to be

and who I want to find

crying tears of joy

tasting God in my body

saying goodbye with dignity

sobbing on tiled floors.

But what for?

ways

Let's move to the sunny spot. 

of

Is that tahini? 

being

Here's the napkins.

that

I want to be in the sun.

don't

I'd love some tahini on my salad. 

hurt

Do you need napkins? 

Moving with my morning body

breathing out my bad, bad, bad

how bad I’ve been

how bad I’ve felt. Now,

moving with breath

into myself

into my wilderness

into my womb. There,

I find myself

waiting patiently,

calling myself home.

Letters on a block.

A B C.

Children don't know

what the letters mean

but they know 

how to play with them

and with each other.

Twitches of an upper lip.

Adults know 

what the twitches mean

but they don't know

how to play with them

or with each other.

The taste of seared salmon.

A floral pour-over.

Sensitivity.

What on earth

could possibly be

more important?

The dynamic.

You know the one.

The one we slip into

(that I slip into)

and can't seem to

catch and free ourselves

before it spirals

out of control.

That is, until tonight,

helped by friends I trust

and leaning on a faith

supported by a gentle touch 

of your toe on my thigh.

I stayed grounded.

I felt all the things.

I separated from my shame and fear

and talked to the one in me who

stands so firm between us

pouting and declaring,

"Not a single step closer!"

In other words, tonight

I remembered how to speak

the language of intimacy.

Finally, I see the path.

And I can't wait to

meet you at the end.

I lowered my gaze as you lifted yours.

You grinned, telling me another thought

about another thing that you just realized.

And when I couldn’t bear a second longer,

I finally said, don’t.

You paused, wrinkled your nose, then hurried:

But it's about exactly this—and it's actually amazing.

You know what you said next? 

That for the past two hours

you had seen beyond my beauty

and at last, just saw

me.

My eyes faded — no, I slipped behind them,

then further, to the space behind my skull,

until I landed in a godforsaken, deadened nowhere.

From there, I murmured: amazing.

Twitch, twitch.

You look my way.

I drop my guard.

Twitch, twitch.

I sense your curiosity.

I sway with your approach.

You're watch me so close.

Are you waiting for me

to twitch? 

Are you waiting

to drop yours?

Stuck,

like a sticky paper,

on a dirty desk,

begging, pleading,

choke me,

hold me,

protect me

from the real

stickiness,

the desperation

underneath.

Molding

begins with a step

in your direction

then a flip and switch

and back away

and back again

followed by 

fear,

contemplation,

acceptance,

and finally,

my lesson learned.

It took a year and a half.

You wouldn't recognize me.

And I'm not sure what to say

about how I got here.

One foot in front of the other?

But now's the most alive I've ever felt.

I feel everything. 

I'm in the moment, always.

Others tell me they feel safe 

around me. 

They say they feel protective 

of me.

Can you believe that?

fear of being seen

fear

fear is the enemy

longing

longing to be seen

hiding

unwilling to be seen

seeing myself

laughing, crying,

because I see myself,

now, in the mirror!

I love you.

I love you!

willing to be seen

seen by my self

is the first step.

No one is home to hold us.

I'm in my misery all day.

Why do you need me?

Why do I need the same from you?

Perverted pictures!

I see, I see, I see...

Who wants some

perverted pictures??

And now, mindddddd.

What's in my minddd?

How are the bees in there?

How does their honey taste?

How many busy bees?

How many to feed me?

Now, now now,

oh, moving around

and around 

in my gut!

yes, yes, the

disgusting

feelings.

mmm...

yeaa...

Velvet curtains

in my bedroom

mask dark clouds.

No one can see me

reconsidering 

the arrangements

on my bookshelf

for just a half hour.

Dangerous follies 

in the desert.

Tell me, where to next?

I want to surrender 

to you—my deepest Self.

I want to come home.

Boundless love...

today I found you 

by a couple wilted petals

that were plucked

without a shrill

without a shutter

by stony hands 

that didn’t know

that what they held

were God's creation.

Those hands,

they didn’t know

wildflowers bloomed

not for attention

but in unison with God.

Today,

I found my petals

when I remembered 

how it felt to share 

a boundless love.

I’m on a bed 

with angels

at sea.

I’m writing a lullaby 

to muffle the cries

of hydras underwater.

I wonder how it'd feel to sink 

and hear the bellows of the beasts

that welcomed me at birth.

I see a star.

-ouch!

I want a star.

-yaw!!

I long for love.

I reside in empty chapels, empty hearses, living rooms.

I dwell in waning waters, waxing moons.

You cannot rid me from a world I built.

These woods are dark.

I crawl, starve, beg.

I sulk under branches 

of my wet desire.

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.

My heart is full.

I see no bad, no good,

no caterpillars, butterflies,

only the metamorphosis

of everything.

Bodies buzzing.

Worker bees, 

laughing.

I'm gently drifting

on 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 a passion

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.

Soon, the rain will come pouring.

My parents will mutter to themselves.

The angels will bicker.

I’m alone inside a room

without a door

without a window.

There’s a lightbulb on a string.

I flick the glass with my finger

and it shatters.

I watch as you wipe 

my image from your mind

as if I were a rotten petal

ruining the flower

that will wilt 

no matter what we do.

I hear the dead man 

tell me that I’m heading

in the wrong direction. 

I’m not obliged to 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 maybe then a woman.

But when the remedies 

stop working,

I'll return, to where 

the dead man stood,

and take his place.

I must get better.

I mean, in every sense,

and probably for everyone to see.

And then, I must maintain 

my goodness. I must maintain

a purity of thought and heart and soul

that made you fall in love with me

and then I must stay beautiful and

pass, quickly.

This pen ink

pouring over

tea-stained paper

that I scratch

with my fingernails 

and which 

I'll buy forever

from the corner store 

when I need calming down.

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 wild 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

which bathed me as a girl,

and gifted me my soul,

energized my intuition,

fed me wilderness and laughter

with her glowing, golden locks.

She will help me survive you.

And then, I will bathe us both

in tenderness and love.

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

the 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.

​

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,
now 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

but 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.