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.
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.
rubber rolls –
the butcher’s best!
heaving slabs of
a collar of spit
a beggar’s garb,
mucous fingers and
pancake batter for arms
there’s room in the pit,
a boulder in my chest,
i am worried for this spirit
so thin you could not hold it.
my love might not be a showering of words
but a slow, observant eye.
it is not ‘i love you’
so much in letters
as in a splash of colour.
it is the every day,
the clapping of your heels,
almost imperceptible nods,
when you Google-searched the difference
between baked and roasted salmon.
Full bloom is when the earth won’t stop smiling, the world won’t stop spinning into the furthest of reaches.
If I could put your laughter in a box, I would sink like sand. Quick, hold me.
Be the person that proclaims with your being: I am proof that there is good in the world.
High tech marks a forward trajectory, approaching Most Human and then surpassing it.
Phone therapy replaces phone sex. What have we done to our insides?
My ego loves you. I however, don’t.
Time feels like the tired grope of my hands on a rope pulled tight. Down the rabbit hole we go.
In another life
You tousle his hair and it’s strangely light
— a dirty blonde. Must have skipped a generation.
And you refer to him as “buddy”.
It is a dream that I spit on for its
cheesy fucking sentiments.
I want to be sweet to you.
Then I want to delete you.
You call for me.
Then you leave me.
You must be tired, too.
I can’t articulate well when you rub my back as I’m holding a fork to my mouth
your body is the sun I think you said and I like feeling bright shall
I keep talking and filling your head with nonsense
you give me room and I spill and
I kept talking until sleep took my place
and now we sleep alone in the dark.