citric silence (a pantoum)

With our differences and a jug of orangeade between us
We could feel the world spin.
The engine hummed a Hindu mantra
And we just drank it in.

We could feel the world spin
Perched in the middle of a parking lot
And we just drank it in,
In the citric silence of nighttime

Perched in the middle of a parking lot,
You murmured something meaningful
In the citric silence of nighttime,
But only the moon could hear.

You murmured something meaningful
And the engine and I purred back.
But only the moon could hear
That the silence was most honest.

tag

I punched your shoulder—
tag, you’re it,
so it was your turn
to be a playful predator
and my turn to pant like it’s life-or-death
when it’s really run-or-rest,
like trick-or-treat,
you-or-me

and never both
because they conflict
and contradict,
playing their own game of tag, you’re it

where “base” is your bed,
the ampersand between our pronouns
and you always chase me there,
but the game’s over on arrival.

so I cover my eyes
and count aloud so you can hide.
And I can wish between the numbers:
“One…I…
two…wish…
three…it didn’t have to be like this,”

and at twenty I’m already hunting again,
and you are being hunted.

at least the rules are clear,
and our roles are clear,
when everything else is muddied like my knees
that prompt parental probing:
“What have you been up to?”

And boy, have I been up to something.

whichever comes first

some criminals

The scene could have been written into a short story
or sketched out in a quirky movie,
or misinterpreted in a modernist painting.

It could have been so many things
if we’d let it out of the room,
where it wouldn’t be tethered down by
“that was a funny memory” carpet stains
or, “that’s from the antique market, remember?” side tables

It did so well without us, too.
The lunar dent the couch’s feet made
in the sugar-cookie-with-sprinkles rug
had a winning dialogue with the oft forgotten window pane
embracing no particularly special view.

In fact, it’s more of a one-way window,
inviting passersby to see
the domestic poetry thrumming and stagnating
like the sound of the cat’s purrs
on the nostalgia-soaked floors.
We became pieces of furniture there too,
and our roles made us forget our words
for there were too many others
dangling before us,
like “painted china,”
or, “this is what late evenings in small towns look like”

in case you ever need to identify one
in a mug shot line-up
when a police officer asks you who or what it was
that made you who or what you are,
and nevermind the answer to that question—
Be patient, we’ll get there, some criminals just slip away.

untitled, in march

Tipped over the watering can
while her voice
through the window screen
tipped over my heart,
spilled its contents
through fire escape floor slats.

And if you were wondering,
the love in a heart
falls like a slinky—
sometimes clumsy,
sometimes pretty,
and always a little lazy
down a staircase
I’m convinced is limitless.

They say the sky is too,
that its interminable blue
goes on forever
in that honest hue,
granting its
auspice to a precious few—
an iris or two
like your orbs that leaked
those tears of you.

And if you were wondering,
the tears in your eyes
fall like melting snowflakes—
sometimes poignant,
sometimes powerful,
and always a little somber

because they don’t want to fade,
and tears would hate
if you forgot why they were made.

So I tipped over the writer’s block
in front of my notebook’s awning.
Now a new day is dawning,
and while I am yawning,
I am ready for its grace:

It begins here in the garden
with the neglected can of tin.

the pen and i

My pen’s a tool of imprecision
complicating blankness with word incisions
that may miss their mark
though that may be the art
of writing down those things
you’re afraid to

Perched on a bench like a bookshelf,
passers-by read my spine
looking for something worth their time,
so even thoughts become capital,
a penny apiece,
and my body camouflages its self
with skin whose opacity
is a delight to touch
but won’t let you in
without that pen,
(as I was saying)
its incisions.

They reveal the real
machinery of humanity
but lack appeal when you learn
exploring might get you bloody,
covered in red ink, black ink,
an indecipherable history
scratching lines in the sand,
or serifs on the page
in the hopes that someone
might understand
the reasons you wish
you were inside-out:
you’d either be lonely, or never without.

the mean

Almost indistinguishable,
like the difference between
snow and sleet,
or the me from yesterday
and the me from today.
Is stagnancy so boring
to revel in the mirror-solid
surface of an undisturbed pond?

But I wear self-induced ripples,
blooming outward like
an atom bomb after it hits.
They leave a mushroom
cloud of dark reminders:
“This is what I did,
and this is what you get.”

And you skip stones across my back,
leave no scars,
just ripples, ripples
--Where you hit, the epicenter:
“This is what I did,
and this is what you get.”

I hear the flat stones in your pockets
jostle against each other
like the thoughts arguing
for more room in my brain.
And I know you’re planning something,
and you know I’m thinking something,
but you’ll never hear what.

--Believe me;
it’s somewhere between
snow and sleet,
me and Me,
a pebble and a bomb.

And I might as well be
the hyphen between
the year of your birth
and the year of your death.