When This Is All Over
I have learned to hand-stitch violets on t-shirt collars & make green-tea matcha lattes out of almond milk & powder. come morning, I cook my egg sunny-side up.
come evening, I try not to grieve.
when I say I love him, I mean I love sitting in a crowded coffee shop
with him; petri dish for germs, Germ-X safely tucked away.
we’ve long-since decided to turn off the news.
cherry blossoms flowered this spring. our neighborhood bloomed at dawn.
we walked & waved across sidewalk streets but did not reach toward each other.
this would come later, we knew. until then, we see & are seen.
he says ‘when this is all over’ often.
When This Is All Over let’s spend months by the sea.
When This Is All Over, we’ll have brunch out every week.
When This Is All Over, you can see your sister on lower east side.
buy a bus tour through time square. ride subway cars to brooklyn bridge;
watch tourists take Instagram’s with sun-baked arches backed by cloudless sky.
I miss petting dogs. When This Is All Over, I will pet so many dogs.
afterward, I’ll buy a starbucks macchiato with too much sugar—go to grocery stores
just to drift down the aisle. on easter, we’ll visit his parents. I’ll hug his mother hello.
we’ll dye eggs in pinks, yellows, blues. if she runs out of eggs, we’ll stop & buy more.
I will come to mass, without fight. at 5:45 we’ll set the table. at 5:50 we’ll pray.
when I browse through new watches in-store, I hope I’ll feel lucky
to keep track of my time. I tack calendars to our bedroom wall -
count out our precious days. april 12th. may 1st. july. I set my alarm for 5:15
though work doesn’t start until 9. I pour my matcha. fry my egg.
I hope the sun will rise.
Automatic Repetition (the original poem was called self-portrait)
note that you are ready to complete the registration form for mental disease,
eviction of wanting to give contiguous calories on adhesive labels.
she burned her bible at 16. it is poison; he purged it hot via I-23.
please note. you leaked in empty pages
the mammal caught by reviewing diary times
The thing you prefer (there's nothing else).
I only use feathers now. you don’t hurt me, I don’t bleed.
a month ago tops that, I want to scream back Parallel:
give me the same thing in your palm
lion of the delicate boy again
or the person who attended at the same time.
The best part is that you will work virtually.
Gorgeous superficial makes the man
launching an autonomous region of the world
vertical raising your spine
there's nothing to do,
there's nothing to do, you think as to seafarer.
Repeat all the time to use.
what a wonderful feeling: despair
Reborn, the morning. the courts will turn red
then pink the then silver. you will look back
towards, feather attracted.
I have the music to regenerate,
cell phone nebula, new history of the cosmos.
for dawn he lives in your lungs;
or confectionery refreshments,
as they focus on your circles.
harriers ...They are not aware.
The goddess, I promise you that I will.
*I put this through translate 7 times. To clean it up, I only re-arranged the punctuation and line lengths, afterward.
a letter to your autopsy report
detailing’s of your brain matter smattering our bed-room walls,
sheets I can no longer use; forced perspective—your remains,
nirvanas of the stars.
A lie. a lie that latches in vertebra of my spine:
brushing shoulders, contusions of breath –
stars collapse inward &
that was all you:
quantum entanglement of fist & stomach,
where bruise mapped universe converges our minds
time, reality to singularity.
I look through black-holed eyes,
temporal distortion flashes behind
my mind-eyed terror-ribbed fluttered pleas:
please kiss me
please come, close the divide
promise it won’t happen again &
there are so many worse things to see,
I wanted to hold you close, despite them
or maybe, one day, to erase the gaps
lingering in my shadow’s wake
& I think you wanted that, too.
If there is no you anymore
I don’t get to hate you anymore.
If this divide, impenetrable
spans along the echo of promises unfulfilled
I will, from the ash, build my own bridge
& become someone more than the mess
you left behind so
I think that’s the worst thing I could say.
Summers swallowed by 90 degree heat
7 & ½ hours a day, 6 days a week
13 years old, when I say I love uneven-bars
I mean radio play, same 5 songs
lungs crystalized with chalk-cloud air
(chalk: applied to grips, to grip the bars
grips: applied to wrists, to help protect skin)
scrunchie hair-tie, determined eyes
perfecting same routines – toe-point here
extended knee & shoulder press,
body balanced on a forefinger,
trusting feet to guide my land.
I take stalk of bruises left between thighs
count each rip burned into my palm;
quarter-sized blisters, on the bad nights
large enough to fear reaching for another hand—
will they leave, disgusted
by my decimated skin? manglings
of once pure flesh; my childhood, my time.
but the weightlessness. God.
the weightlessness &
how could I not need poetry,
after thousands of hours
with aching hands & a yearning to fly?
When I say I love words I mean
I love the chance to break my neck, & by this:
the miracle of every time I do not.
on her passing.
Fuck the fancy words
and fuck the pretty phrases;
I want to write I love you
until my lungs collapse
and my fingers
bleed with the weight of it
I want to empty every ink cartridge
of every thick-smeared pen,
to wear down laptop letters
until they fade and fall apart.
I love you
I love you
I love you
I never said it enough. but
I loved you
I love you
I’ll love you
until the very end.