Bright Blue 

follow my
curve of my

thin gold silver
bounces off

glitter sheen
curve of your

swimming over
waves in your

flesh on flesh
feel of
your shoulders
against mine

cut into me
like the sun
through the

at dawn
you are cool
as morning

hands float
down my

lips on my
color of

bright bright blue

leave me
at sunrise
but never

bright blue

Spring Cleaning

 on my summer dress
 washed a thousand times
 the brown spot, which is supposed to be
 white and pure like the rose I gave my mother
 the tile floors are red and I am an off-white egg
 my yolk drips onto your head
 your laugh fills the walls
 we are in a cave
 is forgiveness,
 is hope, is surrender,
 my mother took the petals
and turned them red just like her lips
how remembering that always was
moment of being sucked dry
i scrubbed for days
i am white

Stream of Consciousness (unedited) 

everything else blurs away like white static from televisions when i was growing up and september 11th happened and my mother’s face and the gray, so much gray. how did i find her after so many scenes and rituals and deep breaths? i found her standing right across from me at the wake, there were flowers swallowing up the room i was there, reading about nanny and everyone had tears in their eyes because it was so well written and beautiful and i missed her more than ever when i read about my sicilian grandmother, ancestor who shared my blue blue veins. i’ve been writing so much about my mother and the seasons and change, that i think real change is floating away from me before my very eyes and it’s scary, as scary as the gray, as the blue. soon it’ll be mother’s day again this year and i will think about how alive she is on paper but invisible in reality and wonder if she will read my book about her the day it gets published or will it sit on her kitchen counter while she dusts around it? 
you are rainbow, all the dim colors of night and i am still here waiting for woman with red lipped smiles and pointed eyebrows i watched you tweeze them in the mirror so many times behind but you looked away glass and pantyhose sheer black your perm looked at me with wide eyes and its curls puffed up at me almost like a cat who’s ready to attack. i ran away and never came back but you returned night after night in the glass mirror.

The Pull

never used the room we had
    to grow sunflowers
instead, it rained
    drenching your curls

flattening my face

green filled the space
     but yellow never surfaced
lost in tall grass, i cried
     you rode the leaves into sky

i waited, below

winter came, all was barren
     your breath chilled my bones
i sucked in your air
     like when you vacuumed

like a madman

yet crumbs, hair, lint, and dirt


i lay on black carpet
     with a blue heart
you stare with black eyes
     whirlwind of dust drags me
all the way back to you


Nothing is everything. Nothing is the burden weighing heavy on your shoulders, the one you always shake off. It’s the last drop of the juice box when you throw it away. Nothing is the three pages you’ve written and not edited, the off-key melody you just created for that song you’ve been working on. It’s the mixture of colors splattered perfectly onto your easel.

Nothing is the lie you tell when you’re doing something suspicious, the secrets you hide from everyone but yourself. Nothing is the air we breathe, the force of gravity that sets us in place upon the earth, the molecules that are naked to the human eye. Effortlessness. It’s the surprise you’re hiding from a loved one, the gift you went out of your way to buy, the favor you did for someone who thanks you unconditionally.

Nothing is what the dog licks off your plate, what you feed him under the table. It’s what you said to your mother when she caught you acting up, what you tell your father when he asks what you’re getting yourself into. Nothing is what you had in your wallet when the homeless man asked you for change, what you see when you walk past him.

It’s what you feel when you close your eyes. Nothing is how much you’ve had to drink when you get pulled over by the police, what you were doing wrong in the first place. It’s what you saw in your rear view mirror, what you saw happen when you caught your wife cheating. Nothing is what you may feel you are sometimes. It’s what you think of when you lay down at night to go to sleep. It’s everything.

Nothing is always something.