the hole.

the hole in your skin
is a mistake.
do you remember falling out
and dropping down?
on the tree, iced branches
grabbing at your body.
but they were all so old,
all so slick,
clearly melting when
the sky held color.
they didn't catch you
but they had to try,
and we all tried so hard
to stop your body
we made a hole
in your skin.
your tender body
lost its color,
dripping
as we dripped
holding you.

that hole,
it's useless, isn't it?
why did you fall that day?

appointment.

1.

lie down,

                he told her

            to

    take

deep breaths

as he listened

          to her

infant heart

ingrown

inside, underneath

the straps that defined her

as a woman 

who has not yet lived

not quite complete

    not quite ready

not quite.

she said

my chest hurts

   when i breathe

(why)

she said

my head bangs

  when i sleep

(why)

she said

so often i bleed

  (why do i

    have to breathe?)

2.

lie down,

he told her

breathe for me,

        he said

      as his hands slipped

                      to open her door

      her infant heart 

startled

        skipped a beat

and ran

out of the room

that ran out of room.

3.

breathe for me

and i'll breathe for you

making air

where there is no atmosphere.

the point is

you didn't want to talk to me

when you shouted across the room

cramming words into a sentence

in a style too awkward for you.

you raised your voice

not for me to hear

because it was quite clear

we'd said our goodbyes

just moments before.

i'd turned my body to the exit

and had started walking

down and out

when i heard my name.

it sounded quite urgent.

the sound came from your mouth

your throat that had tightened up,

pressured by your frozen eyes,

pushed by your stomach,

your violent heart pounding on

its neighbors

and your body sandwiched

between your movements

took you nowhere.

word vomit.

my name was word vomit.

your face avoided that direction

and naturally, the only other direction

was the one i'd begun to walk in.

so as you turned away

your frozen eyes stuck on me

and you not knowing what to say

said my name

so that you would not be alone

in the middle of the hall.

a human shield

to cover your sight

and disconnect the tension;

but tension is not light

and i do not make you

invisible.

you revealed yourself

in truth, in nature,

as an aged infant

stripped of parents

and money and clothes.

you'd make yourself lonely

you'd breathe dead air

you'd hollow your chest

until you think you're sick.

we all make ourselves sick

and i blame you not

for deathly symptoms

but for your ignorance

of this widespread problem.

the point is

i'm annoyed

that my name

(that i)

was word vomit.

sit here and play me some music.

sit here and play me some 

music, she said

thirty-six years ago,

as he walked into the room

and rested near her,

near the bed 

her body called home.

that day,

the radio, old and broken,

gave sputtering sounds,

a final groan

then decidedly went

to rest in silence.

her forehead wrinkles

pulled into place

and her face acknowledged

that all things expire

in parts and in wholes,

slowly nodding.

he made gestures,

abrupt and busy,

promising her that song,

that he will buy another 

radio, or a phonograph,

and several records

of her most favorite music

or perhaps,

others new to her ear.

he spoke disorganized fantasies

about nonexistent money,

luxurious instruments

and machines that no one

had seen in shops

for a while now.

finally silenced

by her smile,

he took his seat again,

tired in a different way

and looked at her,

tired as always.

he remembered again today

that she liked music

and loved to hear it,

waking up

or late at night,

soft when the world was quiet

and loud when her heart

began to scream

while she tried to breathe,

lying in the bed

her body called home.

he remembered today

that she had once said,

if i could hear this

after i have died,

it would be good.

he does not remember

what song it was.

he sat by her now

with closed eyes

imagining that once upon a time,

she had blown blue color

into the clouds from her mouth,

while the wind carried

the scent of her body

around the world

because it loved her

and she loved the music it made

when it traveled through her windows,

holding hands with the melodies

the hospital played

for the broken soldiers.

in her younger days,

she had taught children

how to sing, to play

and run about

in their bodies

born to move and move.

she had never

been so quiet.

maybe she feels the sun

shining still on her other half,

still on her bed

though in a different room.

he had gone to school,

and learned a bit too much,

some of which he'd forgotten

and some of which he used

to buy her new music

(the stores carry them now)

and he brought it with him

on this nice day 

thirty-six years later, 

but not too late.

she has been waiting,

patiently and still,

for him to play her a song.

and he did.

he played her a song.

and she listened,

half of her below the ground,

and half of her above the clouds.

assignment.

the teacher assigned 

a book of mythology

and independent research

on the deities of Greeks

from Aphrodite to Zeus and those between

she quizzed her class

on forty gods and goddesses 

and only three students

remembered all but two

the rest moaned for a lack of miracles

it was then that she began to think

about the uses of so many roles,

one for this, and one for that,

and many more for this and that,

all idealized to be idolized

she fantasized

like we always do

about living in another time

when the people wore their own skins

and enjoyed their lovers with their wines

if she could have Dionysus and his immortality

and move him off his seat

away from the women wildly drowned in dance

and keep him faithful and content

in a quiet kind of life

if she could she'd be the daughter

of Aphrodite's breasts

and Athena's brain

dignified virginity

doused in sex

after school,

in front of the statue,

she'd stare at his body

wishing for Ovid

to make her Pygmalion.

last day.

i would let you kiss me

open my eyes and wake me.

i would take the bus and train

to cry with those who made me.

i would put the book down

and close the laptop.

i would drink some wine

and find it bitter and sweet.

i would not be sleepy today

because i'll have time to rest.

late spring.

mother let go

and let me fall

the way i should've

thirteen years ago

you did not know

youth is most clement

from glass shards

to a broken toe

when a mistake makes

not a man or woman

but only a shadow

who never wakes

the lightness

of being able to fall

then float

above it all

you put your hands

around my head

hoping my lips

won't kiss the land

so i walk

half blinded half deaf

safe from the ticking

of an aging clock

guided by

the mistaken shapes

that barely reach

your dimming eyes

you frown too much

at all the world

and forbid me

to learn by touch

my skin has not tasted

the burn of the sun

the bite of concrete

the meaning of "wasted"

you cannot see

my face so pale and hands too soft

my tongue afraid of sweet

hot coffee and tea

mother let go

before your last fall

or i might never

be above below.

rupture.

i raised my skin

above the rest

and saw a bruise

red and bold

it grew then shrank 

wrinkled in pain

the nerves had screamed

till they turned purple

withstanding a touch

and a push

it endured and suffered

the bully's abuse

then came too much

too many times

its coat worn thin

gave way at last

it'd popped

so suddenly

undressed

too quickly

its innards gone

substance killed

and clear water

was all it spilled.

esto perpetua.

you moved away

last year on the day

i cut my finger 

with a new knife

in the kitchen where

pans fell 

with a clattering scream

drowning the water

rushing out of the faucet

as if they were running

from the sewage monster

flooding the town

with a sense of importance

the pan flipped with madness

and kissed my arm

branded by sizzling lips

i hope you made it

to kansas or idaho

or alaska and hawaii

and disappeared on the road

with sweet farmer girls

in the hay

or swayed the whole night

with naturally tan hips

in the breeze

i hope you liked it

when her mouth mocked

a child's laugh for

your shaky young hands

when her hair said aloha 

to your ticklish nose

when she ambushed you

with a tackle into the snow

when it all melted

and you were more hot than cold

i hope you finally found it

more (dreams).

during the afternoon

from one to 4.5,

he rescued me

once and twice.

in currencies of love

my gratitude was paid:

devotion and happiness, 

some long silent business

the first mind had fooled

the other's beliefs

and imagination to do.

to briefly explain:

sent forth by obligation,

biological determination

with an unclear intention

of securing protection

my mouth, tongue and limbs

commanded by him

through the rule

of equal exchange:

i did what he did

to pay in kind,

fulfilling desiderata

and we both survived.

one mind deep under

easy persuasion,

while the other softly quaked

with its unwanted knowledge 

of the near and nearer future,

he and i,

alone but together,

in bed with a stranger

that is, each other.

we know no names,

we called no names,

only muted sounds

melting in layers

(and all disappeared

with three and half rotations 

of the longer hand's strokes

on an open, indifferent face.)

camera and crowds.

your lips:

you do it naturally

in front of the camera

and the crowds.

your friends won't know

because they aren't

friends at all

if you'd use your brain.

by eleven

you turn off the lights

since it's much easier

to feel lonely that way.

the man.

the man

he was telling me

warning me

he told me 

not to touch

because nothing is gentle enough

the man

he said

he knew everything and even knew that i did not know

anything

like the seed

inside the fruit of a plant that has not yet flowered

i do not 

fear

the cold, the cold fears me

i am 

the lover

of the man who knew it all, then understood

nothing is worth knowing.

the hotel.

i was a man

with a woman

who said we needed

only one bed

in the room

that had two.

the man she'd married

knocked on our door,

which we knew

before we saw.

i was the man,

i went to the door.

the door 

remained closed

till i touched it.

i, not quite the man

with all the right virtues,

did not unlock it.

it'd unlock itself

when i began to turn 

back to bed.

beyond the door

that he pounded down,

the other he 

saw

the body on the bed,

which belonged to him,

and went untouched.

desirable and desiring,

it must have looked

like it wanted more

than just a kiss.

we stood, 

facing each other,

a man and one

who was not quite

a man, 

pulling on the ends

of an imagined

tug of war

while the woman,

still silent

and hopefully hiding

under cooling covers,

went into her own dream

and out of mine.

clairvoyants.

you love

the aged clairvoyants

who have long hair

and taste like crataeva religiosa

you kiss their hands, 

soft and lithe,

and their lips, painted, 

by fairies so fair

you laugh lightly

as they calmly chant,

a low-volume vacuum

whirring with words

you love 

the clairvoyants who gather

in your hearty head 

to steal your wherewithal.

lipstick.

a test patch

of mother's lipstick

has stained

my ankle's back

faded red

with cold coffee

from a half century

before my time

the skin is broken

a patch is missing

and the flesh underneath

feels very exposed

the lipstick red

ran unto my sock

and shoe and bandage

and refused to leave.

he said

i am ugly

i am fat

like a whore

who has been out

of business

for years 

all you do

is sit 

on a broken bed

and dig

for treasures

lost in memory

unseen, unheard

and they say

you are gone

like soft virgin snow

all blackened now

with imprints

of others' dirt

looking for grace

and finding skin

stretched and sagged

only so old

yet more ruined

than birdie roadkill

i saw

her body

bloodied by sunset

i saw death

speechless and struck

by how torturous 

life had been.

single.

a double chocolate

ice cream cone

on this very cold

summery night

is what i paid for

by the delicatessen 

we used to visit

some days ago

everyday

after school

after math help

raising hands

never-minding

little details

troubles

in two equations

out of eleven

we'd walk

together

on the broad streets

and try to

on the narrow ones

then i'd follow

and you'd lead

the same path

you'd buy

some puffed pastries

napoleons

or tiny croissants

or something else

with funny french names

and i'd have a taste

of powdered sugar

on my lip

and i'd go

for something cheaper

like penny candy

priced at a nickel

tootsie rolls

and caramels

swedish fish

two

gummy on my hands

on a summer day

they melted fast

the sun heating

through your glasses

my hand held out

your face frozen

on a hot

hot summer day

i offered you

one fish

in peace

(we'd fought)

that day

in that year

outside that store

not our deli

anymore

they had renamed it 

"single convenience

24/7"

and it looked 

bright

new

commercial

the fish melted

and cooked

on my hand

and you kept staring

your arm slightly broken

and your legs

ungraceful

your lips tilted

open, but closed

i held the fish

out for you

for your mouth

your tongue and taste

i held them

and your head

with my hands

sticky

red

hot and shiny

until the ambulance

took you away.

the box.

why must you 

tell us,

we, who do not

care, about

this love between

you and

him, handsomer

than the sons

of cool nights

and warm days,

her, prettier

than clear drops

of morning

dew resting,

breathing,

dainty and quaint,

like paintings

that are moving

when you look

closer,

why must you

show us

such an obscene

blank page

with words

of love

that really

is not love?

you, who has 

lived

for far too long

in the same year,

you, who has

faith

in things inconstant

and weak of will,

you, who see

only one face

of this square

box:

do not touch

nor lift

this surface hiding

many, many more

or regret will

be yours,

and your love

reveal itself

to be the 25th hour

of the day

behind yesterday,

which steps closer

while you 

are still so, 

so blind.

the Week.

on the Monday

that was not a 

Monday,

you walked down the street

and slipped a little

on melting pieces of ice

that managed to stay

from the snow on Christmas day.

on the Tuesday

that was almost a

Wednesday,

you sat on the bench

to eat your lunch

of spinach leaves

and other greens

and croutons soaked in

three different kinds

of low-fat vinaigrettes.

on the Wednesday

that felt exactly like a

Wednesday,

you waited for the bus

that just wouldn't come

on time,

and watched the cars 

breathe incessantly,

choking the streets.

on the Thursday

that followed the

Wednesday,

you dreamed that it was

Friday, then

Saturday, then

Sunday, 

when you died 

when you woke.

chocolate milk.

side-glancing at her

and her chocolate milk,

you hug with your hands

the iced glass of sweet,

heavily sweating to

the rising 

temperature of noon

the sun stretched

and shot its last arrows

through her hair

and sewed the shadow

of her head

through your black tee

to that softened chest

when the wind blew her hair

across your shoulders,

you inhaled the scent of

shampoo she used

the night before,

rainwater and pine

and pebbles with you

you love 

the sun glaring across

her

the wind kissing

her

the dust touching

her

and her chocolate milk.