This morning I cried three-months worth of tears

I let pour a river full of heartbreak, hopes and fears.

I cried for the ankles I’ve sprained jumping over the moon

and I cried for all the porcelain I’ve broken when I swoon.

I cried for the girl who would fight the world with a spoon

and stand her ground while bleeding from a slight lampoon.

I cried for the young woman who broke off her skin

to feel another’s dreams and the daymares within.

I cried for the soul who pushed Atlas out of his post

to carry the world on her sun burned shoulders as a boast.

I cried for the heart that beat so hard it burst its walls

and I cried for the tears that used to mark stumbles and falls.

I cried until the tears ran dry

until I learned why “beautiful and wry”.

I cried until my thoughts ran cold

until I felt my heart was growing old.  


First there were little earthquakes:

a lingering look, a silly smile,

a shove in the playground,

the magnetic pull of pretty girls

on unsuspecting little boys,

even the ones I’d marked out as my own.


Then came the lightning storms

of first loves

requited with roaring thunder

of fists and fig tree branches;

the scarred tissue of my trunk

still bleeds internally.


After the smoke lifted

and I dusted off my charred remains,

I saw a blue sky

sending me little cloud animals

and we played pictogram for hours.

Oh how I loved the blue sky,

but it turned pink and pale

every morning and evening.

Who knew a sunrise could hurt

more than a thunder storm?


I don’t know when the fissure started,

or when the first heart wall collapsed

and I said

“No worries, I have two

and I only need one to survive”,

but I had skipped that chapter in the textbook

while falling head over calloused heels.

The tsunami of my infatuation

sunk my get-away boat into the Atlantic

and changed my charted course

away from Boston.

I was the Robinson Crusoe

on a two-person deserted island,

burning my soul for fire and

feeding Friday pieces of my flesh for dinner

when the fish didn’t bite.

I don’t know when the ocean floor began to open,

 at first a fault

when the pieces of the island drifted apart

and magma broke through the surface,

then a deeper rift.

I tried to send my thoughts down

with poetic oxygen tanks

and high-tech submarines

but they can’t find the bottom.

The pressure inside the abyss crushes them

in their descent.


Today I run from earthquakes

and carry parasols as umbrellas.

I cover my eyes at sunrises

and my heart at sunsets.

But all of it is in vain;

no one can forecast the weather

down here.





I’ve yet to find a place for you.

At first I threw you on my bed

and almost forgot about you

until I found you lying there the next day

with morning all over your face.

You smelled like mint

and I would have left you on the pillow for an evening snack

but you grew too large

taking root into my thoughts.

I then moved you into my heart

and I was going to plant you there

and water you every morning with good thoughts

and on days with ardor and dry throats

twice a day,

but you turned a hungry face towards the sun

and left me looking at your stem. 

I might have to put you back in the garden -

the soil of my heart has too few minerals to spare.

Who taught you?


Who taught you?

Who took your hand and walked you through the rooms of your life?

Who showed you the way to organize

the knives in your kitchen,

to hide their blades in wooden boxes?

Who taught you how to kill the fruit flies?

Who gave you your tour of your bedroom

and taught you how to organize your body on the bed

and how to store the shadows of visiting bodies,

stacked smoothly and facing down

so they won’t prick you when you sleep?

Who sat you down on the couch in your living room

and walked you through the words to choose

and the look to use

when you say “I want” and “I need” and “I love”?

Who showed you how to kill the ugly thoughts?

Who opened the door to your study

and sorted the books on your desk,

stacked in small stacks

so they won’t crush you under their weight?

Who taught you all of this while I waited on my bed

and no one opened my doors,

and no one took my hand,

and no one showed me where to keep my knives?

Giving [Up] Giving



When you give more than you have

you end up homeless,

stitching together dish rags

into a tupek

while your Amazon boxes

make a cardboard home.


When you give more than you can

you end up listless,

watching black ants crisscrossing

your numb sleeping arm

or the cat licking your face

and coughing up wants.


When you give more than you should

you end up hopeless,

draining love into a bag

through a plastic tube,

too weak to wrap it with bows -

gift for garbage men.


When you give all that you are

you become heartless.

May no one cross your path then.