Of Guilt and Guidance

I.

It's a wonder at old age
dad still shows you
how to extinguish a fire.

When flames went off

the stove tonight

you stood frozen.

Because guilt
is a house
burning in silence.

II.

The day mom slipped

and hit her face on the floor

was the day guilt became

an elderly woman by the door

asking for attention

and a cold glass of water.

Kian

A year before the lopsided shootout

online soldiers marched to the cadence

of keyboards clacking, raising arms

against bullets planted in bags.

Like Armalites, they fired rapidly retorts 

against extortion-riddled privacy.

Now that a gun is forced upon the grip

of your cold, nondominant hand, Kian, 

nobody dares to shoot.

Except the badged shooters.

when this flower

disowns its petals
in blooming accusation
of infidelity
i will believe it
with the lie
you slipped
under my tongue.

(Written sometime in 2009) 

A Strand

Copper crown
half floating upon eyes

longing

descending

from steel steps

drifting to emerge

as a strand in the mess of a hair

of this distant population

rushing on concrete,

have me hoping

to pluck you

from such wild tresses

and keep you

a sample of yearning

or maybe

wish for the winds

to blow you to me

and together we shall

descend and drift away

and wake up in mornings
where we've no need for combs.

He Will Give You Flowers

From a stretched car shall come forth

the perfect boy who shall take your hand

on that night you'll say you've finally fallen

in love after swaying and spinning

in a bright dress under lights that are even brighter.

He will kiss your blushed cheek

after this juncture where you

will feel for the first time

you have come into full bloom—

the lady porcelain on posters in your room.

He will give you flowers

prettier that those already hugging your wrist.

You'll realize after he has not taken

just your shivering hand but also your heart,

which, at that moment, shall shiver too.

And we will shiver as we commit this to vision.

Reality is harder to swallow with you

behind glass clearer than our eyes, face blank,

flesh frozen, lips refusing to let go

of secrets whose dwelling could've been our ears.

From the door shall come forth an imperfect boy

who shall take a moment to remember.

He will give you flowers you shall never touch.

(For Nicole)

The Most Dangerous House a Drifter Can Stay In

The most dangerous house a drifter can stay in

is this fragility beyond flesh,

where silence is the flame

dancing in the fireplace, warming his face;

where mourning dictates the pace,

the movement of things,

the stillness of stunned clocks,

and cracks on the wall creeping.                                                 

There is no room

for misstep that can see him

tumbling down the staircase

of reminiscence, hitting his head

against the floor whose planks are memories,

thud making relevant moments

collapse, creating a gaping hole

where there is no room

—no room at all—

for his chest

and its rise

and fall.

Sakura

These soft pink explosions

shall burst in your eyes

the way my senses do

every time you unravel yourself,

petal by pastel petal,

as the lone blossom

in the wasteland of my heart. 

(Published, Metaphor Magazine, June 2014)

Between the Spaces of Falling Beads

If only we were delicate as the faint light

peeling from the edges of clouds

we could've heard the wisdom

between the spaces of falling beads

and walked in the rain finally
despite our misguided fear

of building pools in our pockets.

The Drag

The night the moon
splashed in the room
and caught two lovers,

mirror-split and drowning,
the drag wore off
like mascara streaming

from eyes that hide
beneath the lampshade,
slumbered in solitude,

neither looking nor hinting,
not even blinking
to lose a lash or take the light in.

We Too Shall Learn

How many more nights

will trouble the soundness of sleep,

you ask, turning to your side
and a blind eye to light
making it improbable

for the tips of your fingers to trace

the surface of this stream

where dreams gather as dust,

from which we shall return

and return we shall to the incantations

we roll in and out of our tongues,

the rendezvous of romance

as told by the moon, its boon

our intertwined limbs already dissolving

in furrowed sheets

tonight, the same night we learn

there will be tempests beyond reason,

no season can ever be fruitful

with the satellite dimming
against the storm clouds,

no question shall come to rest

when we stare out the window

and see nothing but leaves shivering,

telling us that tonight, we too shall learn

there is a fall deeper than our hearts.