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


The Painter

infinite stretch
I reach
 rub green through   Nature
trees on my
    color of our lungs
on rainy afternoons
    a lush world
blooms slow
like a    Lotus
I wait
     planet of mud
 hands     outstretched
      to the blue
it pours
are greener
     lost nights
I write
     places with
pumpkin purple
  blood orange
      smeared ink
I erase
  blood blue
  on      page
        when the pen
   I bleed     out

Washing Up 

my hands    are dirty

I’ve been


hit bone, hit earth,

hit rock, hit bone
You are gone
deep in Earth’s


away from the


of my heart
You are dead
my hands

are dirty

I’ve been


up your


from the rug
Red finger tips

like my mother’s


I thought I was her

then there was


consuming me

like a


I bit the bait

but never bled

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.


It doesn’t matter who
The crumbs stay
stuck on my    socks,
traveling with me
until a   vacuum
sucks them   up.

The grill pan   smokes.
Years rise  UP
toward my kitchen
while I turn on the    fan
to      chase it all

This might be,
erasing   memory…
while my aunt
the fog,
turns off lights,
takes out Grandma’s
wedding album,
places it next to
her    own.

I have my smoke.
Sage wakes my   mornings,
Smells like  the present,
Clears my    past
away into oblivion.

I’ll light it
every morning,
smoking in my    seashell,
every night,
she will cry.

Indigo Sun

The sun burns my skin. It is hot, strong, and smells of      fire. I cook, I bake, I let the      rays from the sky shoot into my     pores. I sweat. I burn, I tan. I am     bronze, I am olive, the color of my grandmother, the color of my     ancestors.

I look down at my     blue veins, the same ones which run along my     mother’s thin hands. The blood inside pumps, thick with vengeance, thick with the     sadness that I try to escape from. I fail. It lies     deep in my connective tissue. Indigo lines connect to my heart, connect me to     her.

The sky is aquamarine, with cotton clouds that float     effortlessly. I try to look up, but the sun blinds my eyes. As a     kid, I tried to look at the sun for as long as I could     stand. I was amazed by the fire, the light, the     burn. The heat warmed my     chilled bones.

Somewhere,     Lil is looking up at the same     sky and looking down at these same     veins.

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

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