NYE

New Year’s Eve was mangled 

in heaps of bodies heaving back and forth

like an angry sea – 

We beat the rain

but were stopped by the cover charge.

Everyone pushed around in such a way

where some were trying to make it to the new year first – 

And others wanted to hide in bathrooms 

and corners 

and alleyways

and under lovers.

Abandon your purses under bars,

lose your identity so the spirits of the new era 

don’t recognize you and you can start 

with a new name,

a new mission.

Drowning in liquor and kisses from strangers 

we spill into the streets of Queens 

with her 24-hour fruit stands 

and public indecency.

We wake up with our IDs tucked neatly in our pockets –

Hungover – 

In places foreign to us.

But we are as we were only hours before 

when we had more time 

and less headaches.

Twenties

I thought my 20s

would be when everything 

made sense – 

I don’t know what I was expecting, though,

since my 20s began with the death

of my mother

and ended with the death 

of my limitations.

My 20s held funerary services 

of who I thought I was –

who I thought was worthy of me.

It was the death of ignoring myself;

My 20s ended with me coming to life.

My Mother’s Prayer

A good beer

and a sticky August night

are all I need

to pay homage to my
Mother.

I am the daughter 

of Patricia – 

Of dragon woman, blue eyeliner

with limp and easy cigarette hands

and mascara wand swords.

Mother to children – 

All hers –

But only two were really hers.

Her alter is the dashboard 

of an ‘03 Mustang 

with offerings of classic rock,

a Bic lighter or three, one probably empty,

and coke bottle eyeglasses 

to see how she made most days

her bitch.

I can still hear her say it.

Her prayer.

Do no harm,

take no shit.

Amen.

Sacrifice

We stand shorebound and watch

fishermen hold tight to rocks,

their faces smooth like beach glass 

from years of meeting with the sea.

A wave will crash 

and more and more – 

Applause for the morning’s bounty.

Even icy dawns

when we saw the sunrise 

over wild spraying sea –

And biting winds threw birds 

towards the end of the earth 

and the horizon lay as if it were under the tide

ignoring the seabirds fights and cries,

she still accords with fishermen

trading patience for salt.

Their steady, tired feet and tired eyes

meet the wind and take its bites 

and respect where the horizon lies. 

Life Meal

Has your life been good or bad ?

Ask if someone lived

a life that falls in the same question range

as a meal in a restaurant.

How was your meal? Was it good or bad?

Was the date good or bad?

Or was your life just life?

Was your life filled with bad moments

that were ultimately good for you,

or tasty, succulent moments that ended

badly?

Was there a slow sip of morning that felt like tea in Fall,

or a sudden forceful gust of wind

that hit like the first swim of late Spring?

How many cold nights did you wake up from?

How many walks did you take alone?

How many savory nights were spent in the minds

of your friends?

So rather than your life be good or bad –

are you full?

Up and Over

I never got the urge

to cry

when looking at someone

I loved unless

they were moments

from death.

I never felt such overwhelming

joy

until that September afternoon –

Your eyes.

Those eyes like mine

made me feel

such joy

I almost wept.

I could not contain

just how much

I loved you.

French press mornings

that gifted us our futures in the bottom

of our cups –

I cannot read our future.

Why did you fall in love with me?

You smiled and said nothing.

I asked again –

I took your hand –

You’re easy to love, I said.

You smiled and said,

because you’re kind.

Kind to heart and kind in patience

rose-colored and divine –

Too rosy to see your eyes that hid

what you couldn’t tell me until

many months past.

To leave me devoured and spit out

spit up resentments where love once was

our cups empty

my –

My cup empty.

You touched her –

and her –

and probably her as well.

Black coffee grind hand on my heart

too divine to stay elevated

fell again

at your feet.

And I wept and wept

to look at your face

to see the death of us –

dead to me.

When I Dream of my Mother

I often wonder what moment

for you was the pistol

and what moment

was the decision to pull

the trigger.

It’s usually a split

decision that moves like

an indiscernible

brush stroke, uniform –

An obvious beginning

and end but no sign

of the climax.

I often wonder what life

you would have led

if you didn’t stay –

If you didn’t say yes

to a rock that was below

your worth –

If you didn’t measure

your life in poorly

assembled dominoes –

A uniformity doomed from the moment

you began self-medicating.

You were never meant to fall straight.

Would you have

remained

in the Native Land

with red clay to call

home and ground yourself

to ancient beings who never fell from the sky?

Who would you have become

if you stopped

holding on so hard?

I may have never been

but I speculate the sacrifice

would have been worth you knowing

old age.