Let

As I walk daily among the holy decaying things, I see 

the rose-bellied hydrangeas, lit in a morning sun – surrendering, bowing to death.

The air in this place seems to whisper, 

“Time is no mercenary here. Rest.”

And I learn that it happens not just without

but within, as my body falls to illness and heals itself, in the time that it does.

I wait, begrudgingly, for something quicker to happen

to me, but the wild rose-bellied teachers have more to say, without a word.

Our cats look. Where? I don’t know. But they look,

like a prayer, or a pocket of perfect peace – 

For how long, and why? I can’t say – and nor can they, I’d think. But there is enough

time to look, or pray, or do whatever it is. A bounty of delicious moments, here.

The season passes and even lingers, and not a single sound is unheard. Each tiny tucked away

corner of day, savored. Nothing is missed. 

So we succumb. 

We read, we play cards, we cook slow with music on, we bathe ourselves in warmth, we move plants into bigger pots, we make space, we make love, we sleep for longer than necessary.

Learning too, to bow – quieting what we can,

moving in slow motion towards a burning sun.

I’ve heard it said that you are what you eat

Perhaps it's true.

Maybe these bones

are made of 

all I've absorbed. 

For when I rise, 

I consume the sounds and smells

of Saturday morning. 

Fresh coffee,

Singing.

Lunchtime nourishes me with 

the coy breeze.

The words on the page,

the cool concrete of the front stoop.

I snack on the thoughts I’ve packed in a Tupperware container at dusk–

Imbibing the sunbeams as they sparkle through the trees.

Sometimes, I remember the words you forced down my throat

years ago.

And I try to cough them up.

They feel bitter inside. 

I feel queasy when I think of 

eating the things they told me to be. 

They don't sit well in me. 

But my body is made up of 

all that I've swallowed.

What has broken down–

has become me.

Fireworks in the summertime,

songs from car rides through the old neighborhood,

and I love you texts.

Sleepless Sleepovers in my sister's bed

and my favorite poems. 

The way you look when you cry

and the way I feel in cathedrals.

I am

Stage lights,

I am 

Carnival rides,

I am

The frost on the grass,

I am

Hungry 

for more. 

To Be Held

Like a brown paper bag of groceries filled with fresh produce,

strong and steady and oh so loyal to the job. 

Gripped, but gently

with loose wrists, like the way you hold your fork 

while diving into another loving meal, eager but reverent.

To be held in the holy morning, when the world is new.

Like how our skin grips the glimmering light from the big orange sun-fruit, 

like it is the Vitamin C and Vitamin D that could cure everything. 

Held,

but not released—

Like the way my heart hung low like a heavy ripened thing about to drop 

the time you called me your dream journal. 

Or when you offered the idea 

of arts and crafts, of looking at orchids 

because you knew that winter was too much a part of my bloodstream.

To be held like the sacred space between mouthfuls of kisses.

Or when your face held hot tears 

after I read you a story about a lost traveler, 

who held Kindness like an endangered species. 

Like when you wrapped me up in the front seat of your car, my tears hot too, 

after a black-and-white film and my dear growing pains had their way with me.

To be held in the forgiving eve, when we cradle the precious parts of days, 

as if we are harvesting them from beneath our little tree

while our tiny bed gently holds us too.

To be held the way you hold me. 

Like the fruit of your Home is cradled by its branches, 

the citrus called Calamansi⁠—

precious golden lime, tiny musk orange.

Like how your face changed when the plant became familiar to you, 

like how my heart-fruit swayed while I watched it happen. 

Held and grown and harvested, like our days and nights together, 

bearing such bittersweet little things.

That which exists in the atmosphere

A bundle of my secret selves,

wrapped in yellow ribbon, dipped in sugar and dunked in wine,

suspend in the open air—

interpreters, becoming.

The previous ones remain, dripping and hanging, sagging

and soaking in the heat of all my suns

while the new ones are introduced to the bunch.

And how will we know if the ghost

of your friend’s lemonade stand roams the room that holds

the bowls of my grandfather’s pistachios? If your

misty music fills the

haunted air my children’s children breathe? If my

old self’s yellow is your

new self’s green?

The Spanish moss hung high from the trees

the day the woman was hanged, pregnant with selves.

And hung still the night we frolicked, humming.

Second Date

And already, I’ve told you that my father has 

used the word “abrupt” to describe me ever 

since before I knew what the word meant.

“Not fully clumsy. Just abrupt.

And maybe a little clumsy too if falling up 

the stairs at least once a week counts,” I said.

Today, I wore sandals in the rain. Feet slipping 

out of shoes, reminding me to slow down.

It’s not that I wasn’t burdened with the decision 

of which shoes to wear. I thought about it 

15 different ways. Came up with 

15 different reasons to wear these/those. And 15 reasons not to.

And it’s not that I was losing control of my feet. It’s just that 

a slight and sudden skip is far more efficient and I want to get a good look 

at that man speaking loudly on his cellphone, gut hanging out, welcoming 

the rain without an umbrella. I am running after the puddle 

on the sidewalk, the tiny sparrow with a chunk of its feathers missing. Forgive me.

Today at work when I was supposed to be 

doing something else, I noticed that the 

question mark on my keyboard, which doubles 

as the backslash, was sticky. Overused.

“Always asking the question too quickly to remember if she knows the answer.” 

—My sixth grade teacher’s words, not mine.

But I can’t remember if I knew this answer or a million little other ones rolled into something

that looks a lot like another question/ But I would love 

to know your answer/ Why you picked it/ If you gave me a few more minutes,

maybe I could tell you what mine could be.

Not fully clumsy. Just abrupt.

Not at all rash, just top-heavy. Laden with reasons, weighing them all in dozens of tiny scales,

And tipping headfirst into your thoughts on God/

puddles/train rides?

Not unaware, just mind ahead of motion.

Feeling ahead of thought. Wondering what you think. Too much slack in my rope.

Too much space between your question, my answer, and every single sparrow in the sky of

every single city on earth.

Give me a second to coil it up.

Give me a moment to loosely translate,

I seem to have misplaced my Heart to Head dictionary.

“Take your time,” you say.

Let’s try this again.

Why do I get the feeling that I could have held you as a baby? /Why do I think I know what

you worry about at night?

And what were you like as a baby? And what do you worry about at night?

Forgive me for my assumed familiarity. Forgive me for asking too quickly. Too abruptly. And 

can you repeat your question please?

Middle

For my brother and sister

I will be your mouthpiece.  Even if my

words are hasty and many.  And when

your words don’t come    quickly, let me

pull up a chair and help you to pour your

hidden grit onto the velvet I carry with me

whenever you are near.

I will fish your fears out gently from the quiet corners I’ve

been to before.  Let me

catch them in my unconditional love.  And with my

eyes I will say you are brilliant. You are

brilliant.

You are

brimming with things that you never say but I

have always known. I

was born with your prudent minds

buried inside

my own.

Silent but stirring, anxious but good.  Two

perfect weights, keeping the middle sturdy—

holding still the flailing and frantic arms of

the one nestled between two of the same kind—

the one who would launch up or drop down if it

weren’t for your perfect balance.

When we talk about Love

Inspired by Jeffrey Gibson’s tapestry

When we talk about Love,

Let us build an altar

And bow.

Let us hold It in our hands like gold

Without testing It with fire.

Let us not be the lavish and feasting king

But the servant who sings praises for a crumb.

Let us not stack our deeds into towers

Only to find that they amount to pillars of sand.

In this talking about Love,

Let us not pretend to know the Magic Tricks,

Or calculate the Equations,

Or degrade with our unclean and naive words.

We are not the Magician

Or the Mathematician

Or the Author.

When we talk about Love,

Let us keep our mouths closed,

And our hands open. 

When was the last time I said thank you? 

For being my

sidekick 

in the adventures.

When I am

lost

and starving in the jungle

you bring me the stone stew.

And when we are

orphans 

you are my only

family.

You are my favorite

student

and I am sorry

for not telling you enough

that you are my favorite

teacher.

You never mind

when I tell you what role to play.

I am sorry

for telling you

what role to play.

We are

Voyagers.

Runway models.

Gourmet chefs.

Horseback riders.

Graffiti artists. 

You think I am the most

clever.

I am sorry

for not telling you

everyday—  

I think you are the most

kind.

I am too busy with the

roles.

You tell me now,

We are

People.

Sisters.

Mothers.

We have so much more to

Be.

Sans Toi

“Sans toi, les émotions d'aujourd hui ne seraient que la peau morte des émotions d'aut.”

Translation: “Without you, today’s emotions would be the scurf of yesterday’s.”

-- Hipolito, “Amélie”

Should I be a bullhorn?

Or should I be the quiet sound

of a faraway train?

When you hear the distant

whistles, like the cries

of someone tucked in secret,

perhaps I’ll already be upright and steady

by the time you find me there.

I will stand and shed you from my skin,

after all the years of bathing in the possibilities,

my fingers and toes pruny with shame.

But after the soaking,

I will shake you off like the flakes of my old self.

Like the parts of me that have long since died

and settled in the unknown nooks.  

Like the scurf of yesterday’s emotions—

the ones you once mailed me in a French secret

to whisper onto paper that

without me,

your todays are nothing but dust.

Yet here You are, without (the shriveled, scaly) me.

And here I am, learning how to meet You once again.

Feral

Mountain girl,

born with the wolves,

drunk on the questions,

searching for the place

to place your swelling soul—

Oh woman of the wind,

head in the clouds,

upside-down sailboat,

whether rightside high up

or wrongside down deep,

we don’t mind.

Breathe in, my love.

And let the soul-stuff pour.

Your compass is you.

Your place is here.

Dream, Cecilia Millette

She returns to

my foggy figment I’ve

been waiting to

see her here Mossy

eyes framed with

wrinkled skin Neck

covered with

white wool Hands

hurriedly dancing over

my face like

a newborn ballerina My tears

christen her

holy hands

Fuzzy—

clouds

between

us I

try and make

the rest of her I

cry again

when I

cannot Her

muffled raspy voice cuts the

cloudy air like knives The sound

waves are golden

shafts piercing the murky

sky Time is

nonsense The hourglass is

engulfed in vagueness I

cradle each moment like

a teacup I

hold her golden hands like

treasures I say “ If I have a daughter I’ll 

name her Millette too 

I’ll call her Millie for short For

you

Maybe you can

meet her here one day”

Her responses are

not her own I

feel myself

forming them I

make a storm that

brings metallic sheets of rain I

make more clouds that

thicken I

make her          I

cannot make her know me.

Refine.

v. To remove impurities or unwanted elements, to improve by making small changes. 

For Madeline Refine

i.

My best friend got her period 

for the first time 

sophomore year of high school. 

It was not only rudely tardy,

but unapologetically interruptive.

During a December evening of sledding,

it bled through her snowsuit

and onto the crisp white snow.

wash, repeat, refine, 

be. 

…

ii.

My best friend's first love

slept with a different girl 

this October.

It left her drowning in questions 

and its darkness soaked her sheets at night. 

It seeped into her quiet 

and onto the moments she braved. 

wash. 

re

peat 

re

fine—

you

are.

This is my favorite fairytale.

42.

"Look at how cute he is with his glasses. 

I've known him since he was 10 and now 

he's old and he has little glasses."

Since he was 10.

42 years ago. 

He looks up from over his readers 

and smiles his father's smile.

She laughs and laughs

which is music to me.

I sit on the couch and look at them.

I really look at them. 

36.

He still calls her Bunny

after 36 years of togetherness,

even when she yells at him 

for ditching her at prom 30 years ago. 

She never ignores his calls,

even when she knows exactly what he’ll say

and whatever mood he’s in.

She laughs.

And voices her prediction of his words

before she answers.

When he's on the line,

he repeats it exactly.

I sit in the passenger seat of the car

with no good explanation.

29.

I have started sneaking their letters 

into an old shoebox.

One is a 29-year-old apology note 

from a 5th grade argument.

Another is a card written the day 

of my brother's birth.

I find a necklace in my mom's jewelry drawer 

that has their names engraved on two charms. 

She tells me he got it for her when they were young.

She laughs—

and calls it dorky.

She says I have a silly habit

of playing their lives in my mind like a movie.

17.

The two of them

move miles from their old neighborhood—

with a new

and small

version of the themselves.

They are both 27 years old

and have known each other 

for 17 of them. 

Their days are filled with too many hours and

their weeks look different than they used to.

They hold onto the pieces of their childhood 

by looking at one another. 

They are starting the new 

by knowing each moment of the old.

8.

8 years of being classmates,

friends.

Hanging out at the park.

He is an almost constant presence at her home

even though she and her 9 siblings 

don't allow for much more space.

He helps her brothers make an ice rink in the street.

He builds a bar in her bedroom 

and tells her parents it's a game table.

She rolls her eyes

like she'll do for another 34 years. 

But she'll always laugh.

0.

It is September. 

His first day at St. Priscilla grade school

as a transfer student.

Across the parking lot 

is a girl in a green jacket, 

the name Mayor across the back.

He swears he noticed her.

She swears he didn’t.

But that girl would know him

better than anyone else ever could.

And maybe she's right about it 

not being like a movie,

or a fairytale,

but she keeps laughing.