I woke up to foggy streets this morning and crossed the lake in a ferry. I bought cinnamon chocolate from the gypsies and met a boy who swore to love me like the waves. I told him to love me less but love me long instead.
Forehead
My forehead is so wide you could serve breakfast on it and still
have space for the dessert you always wished came with breakfast.
When I was young, I hated it. Kids in school would tease me about the amount of
space above my eyebrows, tell me I was balding, call me a walking solar plate.
One day I went home crying and when I told my father why,
he laughed and took me in his arms, saying,
“Princess, your forehead is wide so I can fit all my kisses on it, enough
to last you all day until you come back home to me and I can fill
it up again. Your forehead is wide so that when you’re having a fever,
my huge hand will always cover it just fine. This space
above your eyebrows is the vastness of the night sky.
It tells you what you can imagine
is greater than what you can see, hear, taste and touch, and it is wide
so there is enough space in your head to hold all the dreams
your hands are still too small to carry. Your forehead, my Princess, is wide
like mine.
It is my present to you and only you; no one else in the family has it. You
have my brains, you have my smarts; now go
find your own heart.”
So I wore this forehead proudly as a solider
does his medal. I pinned my hair all the way
back so everyone could see it and when they laughed, I told them
it was my father’s present to me.
But lately, I have been cutting bangs.
Sandman
In my dreams, I met a man I could not quite see.
He was a light in the shadow, a spark in the ashes,
a nightmare reaching out to me.
With trembling bones, I asked him who he was
and he smiled and chanted three,
“Sweet thing, sweet thing, sweet thing,”
and he smiled and he said to me,
“I am whoever you want me to be.”
“I am the Alder King, who calls to you sweet
and I will clothe you in garments gold
and sing you a haunting lied.
I am good ol’ Tom who waits patiently,
who sits in a bar and prays you won’t fall
in love with me.
I am that married man with two kids,
whom you fervently wished wasn’t
happily bounded to the wedding creed.
I am that boy who came the closest,
the almost lover who drowned
you in thirst.
I am that mad prophet with the glass eye,
telling everyone that the stars are children
dancing in the sky.”
In my dreams, I met a man I could not quite see.
He was a light in the shadow, a spark in the ashes,
a nightmare reaching out to me.
With trembling bones, I asked him who he was
and he smiled and chanted three,
“Sweet thing, sweet thing, sweet thing,”
and he smiled and he said to me,
“I am whoever you want me to be.”
Not a Tragedy
Because eventually, waiting
in bed becomes less anticipatory than lonely
and pillows always fall short
in mimicking a breathing
body. Because touch
screens cannot replace the feeling of flesh
upon flesh and clicks do not make ‘connect’.
Because each ‘no’ works its way into a conclusion
and the unoccupied chair at the table finally loses
relevance. Because the road back home
grows longer and darker until the bread crumbs
cannot be found so he stopped putting them out.
You said that one day I will find a man I love
and that day I will forgive you.
But father’s razor
still holds
your skin, and I am afraid
of a wedding ring.
Strangers on a Train
We have only just met but already the sense of an ending impresses itself onto me.
Even as we exchange awkward smiles and begin a conversation about the book in my hands, the end of this meeting is in sight. After all, there are only so many stops we can take this train to, so many words we can say until we come too close for first meetings. A world with spinning doors and call girls is only good for brief encounters.
The doors open and before I can unravel the thread, scatter the bread for you to one day find your way back, you are returned to the crowds whence you came to me.
And already I am forgetting your face.
Alaska
A boy came to me once, looking for Alaska. He had clearly just stumbled out of adolescence; hands still outstretched, searching for the absence of walls. His facial hair was scarce and you could see the faint shadows of popped pimples on his cheeks. He held a book in one hand and a map of Florida in the other, saying excitedly to me, “I’ve just read this great book about Alaska and I am looking for her.” His eyes were shining and his heart was trembling as he looked expectantly at me.
“Why are you looking for her?” I asked, although I already knew the answer in my heart.
“I go to seek the Great Perhaps. Can you help me?”
“She is not here,” I said, sadly. “She is not me”.
Banana Bread
You used to make banana bread once a week, and I’d swear,
it was the best damn banana bread I have ever tasted. Even though
I knew the way home from school, I would close my eyes
and let my nose lead the way because finally reaching the front steps
felt so much better that way. Waiting
to have it after dinner was always a torture and I would shove everything
on my plate into my mouth, hardly chewing, just so I could be done with dinner.
And finally sinking my teeth into your banana bread, I would sigh with exaggerated pleasure
as I tasted
nothing. I don’t remember
eating your banana bread because I was too young
and you stopped baking a long time ago. What I have are stories
told and I imagine it must be damn good banana bread
if stories are still being told about it. I don’t remember
its taste or its smell or anything about it but I figured if I
wrote a poem about it, I’d have something
(even if it is just a poem)
that make me feels like a mother’s child.
How We Make Love
Clumsily and tenderly at first,
like preschool attempts at origami;
folding and unfolding sections
to see where the corners go,
where the ugly parts can hide
and where all the pieces best fit.
Then taking our awkward
swan-bird-ball-folded paper thing home
shyly and proudly, placing it on a mantle
so everyone who comes can see.
Look! I made something!
I am not quite sure what it is but look!
I made something.
But over time fearfully and rarely,
as fingers grow more adept
at taking things apart
than putting them together,
more careful knowing that paper
folded along the wrong
lines too many times tears easily and neatly.
Until one day, when dusting out the attic,
a swan-bird-ball-folded paper thing
is found wedged under an old trunk,
with what must once have been a wing
bent over what could once have been a head
and thinking, “Wow, I used to make things,”
but then, that was a long time ago.
I want love to be mixed in between sheets, on tapes, in morning cocktails.
Tuesday Night Drinks
My muse called me out
for beer the other night
and after he inhaled a
mug, he told me about
a boy he could loan me.
He said the boy will inspire
in me love poems and tragedies
and that they will all
be terribly sad and terribly
wonderful. I asked him
what would happen if I
fell in love with him and
my muse snorted beer from
his nose and said,
“Yeah right. You will use
him up like you did the ones
before, wringing from
him everything you can get,
like grapefruit. And then
you will get bored and toss
him aside and wait for me
to get you another.” I
protest but my muse continues,
“You are a whore. Just like
me.”
