WATER

Father, how we search for your embrace

that you would guide my shaking hand

and sit beside me as my mind whirrs and splutters

that you would wipe the sweat that crowns my head

and douse me in the cool waters of your laughter

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WINTER ORANGES

Mother’s fingers are stained with orange peels.
She stands by the kitchen and offers me orbs;
She wants me to live a hundred years more.

Mirrors are painful, my face is too round.
In harsh winter, cheeks blossom
and soften into hers, whose face I love.

I carry her as she carried me
inside her belly, a little orange tree.
For as many years I’ll live,
I will brave through the winter
a quiet reminder
that I am
my mother’s daughter.

CANTABILE

mincing your thoughts and
garlic for mushrooms,
whistling in the evenings
some Schubertian tune,
there is no one that sounds
quite like you.

keys jangling,
one hand steering,
always carrying,
listening. listening.
the other hand holding
until we make it past
the chaotic street crossing.

your steps,
affretando
a little hard to follow.
in the evenings,
animando
breaking bread with aceto.

resting, eyes closed,
in the thick of strings,
maestoso
I wonder where you go
when the music begins.

in a thousand tongues
I tell you,
gracioso
I love you
Te Amo
我愛你
Je t’aime,
cantabile

DEAR GRANDMA

FOURWORD

Tip-of-the tongue
what is the word?
hands in your hair
thinking about
others – ah it’s
humility!

HAIK-U

Speaking of poets
like old friends, I must meet your
beloved Hardy.

BUTTERFLIGHT

Slate blue eyes, adorned with coral
you see beyond the mundane,
capturing light as it skims the leaves,
iridescent clouds, effervescent memories
in shadowy towers and age-old palaces.  

Attentive to whispers of feeling:
Timmy is watering the flowers-
maybe something is blossoming
between us. 

People like you are pockets of goodness,
strong, as nothing erodes it.
You land softly onto my shoulder
and teach me how to be lovely.

Avoir le bras long

in the comfort of cotton too hot
in the sanctuary of these four walls
pristine like the underside of a clamshell,
the trees framed by the window are
nothing more than an artist’s rendering.

there is more to be done here:
the cracked cranium, the leaky sink
the chipped bed-frame, the dust-
oh the dust is everywhere, multiplying,
born of things decaying.
like clockwork i make the rounds
spiralling inwards indefinitely.

i live by the sliver of sun,
the flickering bulb as i chase
my shadow friends
(faux amies).
i am the eye of a storm,
snapping branches- my arms!

je ne peux même pas m’embrasser.