March 24, 2012
February 28, 2011
The half-eaten pomegranate
is losing its color, turning brown on the plate.
This piece of fruit– of course–is only a metaphor
for the tired heart: the portal to a whole new underworld
full of ghosts dressed in rainbow colors.
I remember the crook of your arm,
an erotic place in which I longed to live forever.
Your skin is the water, I am the boat–
washed clean, finally.
February 11, 2011
after e.e. cummings
the small hands of the rain
compose a love song in the key of C:
it is the same thing—again, again—
roses, the body, & other red-colored things
mmmm(my heart, your heart)
i know i cannot have you
as the moon has the sea
but perhaps I will hold you
like ghosts & wind—
an all new song