introduction

let us begin mid-poem here,
approximately where I begin the laments
of stormy weather and/or the quiet solitude of teabags,
a wasted love that withers with insincerity.

let us begin mid-poem, I have no introductions anymore,
there is little time, little room, little energy left
for niceties,
for elaborate entrances,
for fine-tuned explanations of the world.

no, there is no time for this,
only time for breathing in the layers of loss
that burn our eyes and sharpen our tongues
until our every ligament seethes with a black anger
but flexes into a lazy paralysis.

she is a mother who hasn’t hugged her son in two years
lest there be an infringement on security.
their love
caught between plated glass and linoleum floors.

there is a plate of glass over our hearts,
no room, no time, no place for people or things to enter.
And sad excuses for ourselves:
I am sorry, I did not know people suffered like this.

we call ourselves constant journeyers
on thorny, dusty, twisted paths rolling pearls between our fingertips.
we count each step,
enumerate our short breaths with the beads
and false prophets that pretend to give us “life” again,
but only make our hearts stiff and heavy with grief

and in our hypocrisy,
we let go our chain of pearls, drop them to the earth
one by one or in bunches along the way
with distant hope that we may follow them
and find our way back in daylight.

subway

he is on the last subway car
nearly midnight with his worn duffel bag
and scuffed shoes.
his head rests against the glass pane
between his seated body and the sliding doors.
there are a few others on the car, all who’ve slowly inched
away from him. Either jumping cars
or conveniently finding a seat out of his line of sight.

his eyes drop, stare at the scattered and
browned newspaper pages and nearly empty coffee cups
rolling endlessly along the smooth floor with every brake or jolt.

the lights flicker briefly as they near the end of the line,
a woman’s voice announces the final stop.
his weak knees stall, eyes following passengers
shuffling out the doors, dark circles and parcels of worry under their eyes.

the train conductor swings open the driver door,
and he catches of a short glimpse of dials, switches, gears,
the machinery propelling riders forward.
Conductor peers at him with scaly, impatient eyes.

with one hand he gathers up his frayed things, watches his step
out the car. Sits on the platform listening to
the train pulling out the station, leaving him in exhaust fumes
and echoes of loss.

that which we do not do

we are loud,
boisterous with eyes
on us, eliciting
frenzied laughter

and we are laughing as well,
trying to keep our hearts
from swelling with
words we are unable to say.

so we say what we can,
what our cowardly mouths
can piece together,
the untruths
that fester below our tongues
while our chests are heaving

trying to cope with
the mountains of lies we sit atop
like jeweled kings.

but with the altitude
in a few short months rising,
our curses will reach us and
we are unable to breathe.

weeping willow

before the storm

she was a willow
on uneven ground, her heart hidden
beneath winter-cracked soil.

the willow’s roots ran deep
into the earth where she had grown,
and we, the arrogant passers-by dared to call her
weeping
when she was glad her branches
did not reach upwards towards the sky.

instead her branches swept the ground,
concealing the heart that grew within her,
nurturing fists of compassion and
extending fingers of love into her bark.

we sat under the willow
listening to her branches rustling in winds
too forceful for this season. it almost laid her bare
as the downtrodden branches snapped
with each gust.

after the storm

oh, the very little left of her
is still a menacing beauty. but
the heart that ran through her veined bark
is exposed for what it is:

a sad pumping mechanism that may have
for some time kept her alive, swaying,
bearing the fruits of spring and tender green
mounds of leaves.

today it has receded from sight, and we are finally correct;
she is weeping
tilting towards a bitter fear that promises
the next storm will not be so lenient.