Poetry Series Part II

why cooking is more fun than cleaning

Stuck together sweet cakes" “You’re golden,” butter Cookies, kisses, and savory dishes like “You’re my person.” I can’t cook anymore, look through the cabinets for anything. Talking tastes sour. Swallowing is barbed wire. Yet, I have crumbs in my bed they left behind. I’ll pack them in a ziplock, tuck them in my pocket. They’re not gone—just misplaced. I’m not lost, just making space for new kitchen cabinets. Mix-matched mugs, spoons bent in, chipped cups topped with paper towels to wipe up spills from our kin.

for rent

The house was a passing place. I extended the lease two years too long. No room for growing vines or brown paper bouquets. No room for clothing racks, sequins, or all-black silks. No room for boxes that never get put away.

That I wanted a big closet to pretend in. A dishwasher that washes the chapstick off green glasses. A washer to clean the mud from my creased Jordans. A big window. So I can see the world that sits before them. So the gold can watch over me. An invitation to dance. Or to watch the rainfall, carry me.

Poems & Illustrations Part II

if lust were long walks on the beach

We took breaths of sunsets and choked on butterflies to feel alive.

Neon gushed through our insides, inflaming ultraviolets. A forest fire. But only the flowers burn. Sweet desire, I’m tired.

april

Sometimes silence sounds like children playing on a playground. The sweet laughter and creaky swing sets, the sand in your shoes and your hair. You fell a lot. But who the hell cares.

Sometimes silence sounds like the ocean. The Atlantic at 6 a.m. in the month of June. Right at the edge of the water where the waves kiss your toes and you inhale the burst of first light orange.

Sometimes silence sounds like a heartbeat. But not your own. The one that made a tune with you. The bump electrifies your skin and deepens your lungs. But no more heavy breathing, only waiting, wanting, and leaving. Back then it was self-loved someone symphony.

It’s 2 a.m. They can only see with their fingertips. Stipples of streetlight drip through the blinds like falling stars. They’re tangled in blankets belonging to someone else. Their only concern is whispering the language they shared. No one else. The crickets chirp in the April night. Humming, humming.

They slept beside each other entangled, erotic. But now, estranged, out of sight. Their language is dead. Only faded scenes and the pieces of past promises scotch-taped together. But 2 a.m., then, felt like forever. Sometimes silence sounds like you. How you talk behind your back. How you speak you’re not hungry but you say you want to spend your last $10 for the week on a burger. You say sweet nothings, you shout slurs about you, you whisper, “you look good today” faintly so that God can’t even hear you.

Sometimes silence sounds like everything all at once. Can you have that by tonight? When can you hang out? Have you paid for this? Did you schedule that? Cars, planes, people in the street existing and functioning, fulfilling their economic corporate needs.

Sometimes silence sounds like an old phone the one that hangs on the wall. Like getting a call from someone you weren’t expecting. You answer because you think it’s them but it’s not. You’re not rude so you stay and chat.

Sometimes silence is the wind whispering through your hair. The holes in your sleeves snagged from the fences. Walls you put up painted pink with each stained sheet. Strangled from cotton each thread sinks deep.

Sometimes silence is the buzzing of the lights on the walls, tucked on shelves and behind the window. It creeps in from the street. Comes in the door without invitation. It’s a pleasant unwelcome guest.

Sometimes silence is vacant. Rooms filled with dust. Neighbors to welcome you home. Old lovers with not much love at all. You put up your sign no vacancy no more.

Sometimes silence is a sunset. so bright and blissful you close your eyes and breathe in the now, push over the later and breathe out the before.

The Candles that Change Everything