Twilight is still mine

even though he is here now

and those dark days

       seem far enough     

             not to matter,


              they still do.

I have to catch my breath

   when harsh words

               flow back

even though

  the bars are non-existent

and those ugly sneered consonants

    once spat in moments of rage


            with images of you.

      On those days

when light peeks in

just enough to make me smile,

  and cardinal feathers

         leave a trail of hope

             for waking lashes to follow,

I tuck my tears

  in his wings of humility
                  and pretend you never happened



There is a River

There was a river and I filled it.
I filled it for all of us:
the ones who are haunted
from old words, cruel words, sweet words
and especially those words that wake us up
from a dead sleep, screaming to be heard.

I filled it for every color from every corner:
for those who cannot, will not, should not
and those who ran out of tears long ago,
for those who have too many reasons
or not enough time to sit down and cry.

I poured pitchers for her, for him, for us, them, …
yes, even them,

those who created, then left us, turned their backs,
spat, laughed, sneered and kicked us
when we were down.

I didn’t wait for the rain
like seashells wait for tide, or flowers crave sun.
I just let them fall long and steady to seal our fate.

There is a river, and I filled it.



Father’s Day

This day in June
when ladies
become little girls again,

sweetly reminiscing
of yellow pig-tailed
Saturdays at the park
and two-dipped cone Sundays,

I pull the covers over my head
and try to pretend that it is tomorrow-
(just another day,)

so my morning
can be like everyone else’s.

This always fails,
so I end up in the floor
in fetal position, wondering
what a horrible person I must be
to make a man walk away
while my little legs were still wobbly
and I had not lost my first tooth yet.

How could someone so small;
a curly haired, wide-eyed creation of love
be so unlovable?

Like every other June,
my husband takes my hands
and gently reminds me
that this neglect
(and yes, it is still neglect
as long as I am your daughter)

has nothing,
no, NOTHING at all

to do with ME.




(Out of the darkness, now,)
leafless, left somehow unscathed
through decades of fabricated bliss.

New, pink, like flamingos
picking wildflowers,
hoping they would live,
dreams withered within trembling hands,

my mind chasing them, pulling them back
to breeze me through another midnight;

another morning; lashes forced open
like creaking doors
of a once sold out cinema
now cold, seeking laughter or any sign
that love was still alive,

fading stars losing the will to shine,
but showing up anyway,

like B.B. King-
always singing the blues.