Madonna

Always the reflection of the little one in her eyes:
Supple & smooth the skin that is part of her,
The flesh no longer distinguishable where it began
& where it ended. The serenity held by what she holds
Reminds her of loveliness she once knew. This was her.
In such smallness, she remembers how her innocence
Won praises when it was her in the arms of admirers.
& she was beautiful even before: that this beauty
Never paled, only whitened, now apparent
In her precious’ skin, is something
She is thankful for, the way the baby is for milk,
The way she is for the baby: the survival
Of beauty & continuity.

(For Janine)

The poem I wish to write

Has fluttered a thought ember
towards the sun departing
from the edge of my window.

I gaze at it with wistful recall
till all colors blanketing the earth
have paled to shadows.

Tomorrow, the sun
will rise in your eyes.
And it will speak of a morning

more physical than longing,
more eloquent than lost verses. 

Wish

always the conversation to open avenues
long forgotten in the mind.
hers be the thoughts that have wandered
in this forest of forgetfulness, whose trees we used to climb
to shout to the sky our longings now birds bringing
the bleakest of rememberings. how interesting
the way we hide in our sleep, how we find blankets for keeps
in the fragility of waking while we take snapshots of us dreaming.
soon we shall be washed by the reality we escape: light.
light which is faster than the utterance of names
we give our wounds. tomorrow the healing begins:
i part the grayness of memories the way an old man parts
his hair of senility. and let me tell you,
you do not age the way a woman should. should there be a woman
to capture this heart burning in prayer, the same prayer
that burned down the house built by doubts,
let it be you. into the fire, i say, let it be you.
the birds are now returning to proclaim the secret of this wish.
and the forest is still, wide, and quiet. the avenues reopen,
the names and snapshots more vivid than ever.
the old man rises like a fleshed specter
and loses his hair in madness. again
we are perched on the same tree: love above all.
because all there is to love is above.

A Song With A Beak

Let me tear down
the wall you erected
between us
with this kiss:
a crow
that has once pecked
your heart.

(Published, Metaphor Magazine, June 2014)

Transit

From this watery gaze above the metro
I recall moments from minutes ago.
How in an instant I lost you
in an exchange usually ending with you
clutching my arm, I accommodating
the bag you carry, the heaving of your chest.

Today, we abandoned the city’s way of uniting us:
every afternoon meeting at the station
where people hustle on their way home heedless
they might trip on their steps or lose
something valuable in the process.
Like us engaged in argument.

And we were home every time we touched,
palm on palm, while waiting for lights
to whiten our faces in the dim stretch of the tunnel.
Now you are straight-sure as this locomotive:
The only destinations we reach
are ends and back again.

The rolling of metal wheels is in haste
yet the world outside seems taunting still.
You are in the next train yet I seek you
in every scene seen through blurred glass.

This journey may not see
an arrival anytime soon,
the whirring of this train becoming
a hundred small wheels spinning on my spine.

(Published, Paper Monster Press)