The stench of sweaty pits
my stained black shirt in exchange
for your stained grey sheets.
Mixed fluids and liquid feelings
I left unsatisfied, a little bewildered,
and a little inspired by brief flashes
of pleasure –
born of your ardent devotion
to the impossible challenge.
Tit for tat, make up for the first time
when I wanted it to stop and he didn’t.
Your perfect teeth remind of the first
set that grazed my nipples.
You are a do-over of a night
of unresolved tensions,
My body refuses what my heart confuses:
an entangled love with thrashing legs.
I could’ve taken the couch instead
but I wanted you to ask me to [stay]
come to bed.
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
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.
mincing your thoughts and
garlic for mushrooms,
whistling in the evenings
some Schubertian tune,
there is no one that sounds
quite like you.
one hand steering,
the other hand holding
until we make it past
the chaotic street crossing.
a little hard to follow.
in the evenings,
breaking bread with aceto.
resting, eyes closed,
in the thick of strings,
I wonder where you go
when the music begins.
in a thousand tongues
I tell you,
I love you
what is the word?
hands in your hair
others – ah it’s
Speaking of poets
like old friends, I must meet your
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
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.
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
i am the eye of a storm,
snapping branches- my arms!
je ne peux même pas m’embrasser.
Crouched, fearsome, lioness!
Stitching together your mother’s clothes,
spear-heading into the unknown
with nimble fingers and a triumphant smile.
You say: we have won, daughters,
collecting trauma like trophies,
like charms dangling round your wrist.
You beat your chest, soft as pillows,
roaring at the moon:
For your sunshine, my daughter,
I rise again.