honey bee

in the midst
     of
buzz-buzz-
buzzin’
against your
    window

i see those
evergreen
   eyes
through
glass

oh   my

how the sun
     shines
through
your
blinds

my body’s
kissin’ sky
   now
and your
belly-button
is the
          sun

you pressed
me
into a   flower
 into
        your
favorite
            poem

re-read our
    story
as words
      try
to      describe
the
    beauty
of evergreen
    pines

Bright Blue 

follow my
lines
curve of my
hips

thin gold silver
light
bounces off
thighs

glitter sheen
sparkle
curve of your
lips

swimming over
underneath
waves in your
eyes

flesh on flesh
feel of
your shoulders
against mine

cut into me
like the sun
through the
blinds

at dawn
you are cool
as morning
dew

hands float
down my
back
bone

lips on my
neck
color of
you

bright bright blue

leave me
at sunrise
but never
alone

bright blue

The Painter

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

Spring Cleaning

 mud
 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
 somewhere
 home
 white
 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
wearing
mud

Washing Up 

my hands    are dirty

I’ve been

digging

hit bone, hit earth,

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

core,

away from the

center

of my heart
You are dead
my hands

are dirty

I’ve been

cleaning

up your

blood

from the rug
Red finger tips

like my mother’s

 

lipstick
I thought I was her

then there was

you

consuming me

like a

fresh

catch
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.

Sage

It doesn’t matter who
sweeps.
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
ceiling
while I turn on the    fan
to      chase it all
away.

This might be,
me
erasing   memory…
while my aunt
inhales
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,
burning.
Smells like  the present,
Clears my    past
away into oblivion.

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

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