Palm.

I open my fingers to let you breathe,
And you’re gentle.
Inhaling against my palm--
You’re keeping warm,
And teaching me how.
I wonder at you
Because even though you’re not a flower,
That’s still how you feel.
As beautiful,
And as real.

i looked up.

she always pulls off what you
never think she won't do,
slides right into the cracks of
invisible walls and shoes you never had
and does exactly what they all keep
saying you're supposed to--

she comes back.

but while her shoulders are turned,
you hear some say
they prefer things to happen
when she's in absence.

and while her back is turned,
you hear your own
thoughts screaming they
can't do anything when
she's so far away.

so sometimes, i try to plead with them.
but they never understand
that i'm exhausted and my head
won't process what my heart's forgot.
and i know the only reason
i make an effort of this,
is more for you and less for me.
but i'm afraid to admit that.

and it feels as though i've
only mastered half of what she can--
all of "breaks" and never "through".
and i try to get closer to earn
a whole of what it is to recover,
and it takes very little to feel
the strength of her against my skin,
against our skins, continuity.

but she shows in all the places.
and she's needed in all the places.
and she holds in all the places,
that they always understand need and light.
and she tries to get me listening,
tries to get me reaching,
tries to get me being what
all of this might mean.
but the reflection's getting darker,
and the space beside is getting brighter
and i'm pulled along other cobblestones.
away. yearning.

and i know the only reason
i can see her in the face anymore,
is because she's got sky in her eyes,
and that's the single place
that ever really knows me back.

and i've realized that she,
is the one thing i want to be,
yet fear is the one
that will never be close enough
to consume me entirely.

What They Never Tell You.

Dear Sir,
If it’d be alright,
I’d like to give it all back.
I promise I will return it to the shelf gently,
Just like you had it—
Looking idyllic and perfect and magic,
And pristine in all the ways everyone
Always imagines these things--
In exchange for my place back
In the center of the aisle,
With my usual time at 4:43 in the afternoon
Where I’d come by and dream,
And wish that I could find a way to make It mine.
Because you see sir,
That pretty thing that you sell on that shelf
Is all sharp and glass on its insides.
It attaches to the skin far too easily
While you’re distracted by its ability
To make everything seem right,
Then it becomes a part of your everything.
Until one night it gets a little too dark,
And It gets a little too restless,
It shatters from its core and pains your insides,
Exactly as the warnings they never tell you about.
And nobody can stay like that,
Shattered all the time,
Messy all the time.
Where your only hopes
Are attempts at scars,
And your fingers scrape, and hurt in the morning,
So you can’t hold or touch anything for weeks.
And in the corner of the room, is what you’ve
Managed to rip free, Along with the bits
Of your skin its taken with it.
And there are holes along the
Insides of your heart, and tired soul.
And you think you hear it crying,
But it’s too muffled for you to tell.
And sir, I just don’t know that it’s worth it,
To lose your head over your heart,
To become what you never were.
No, Sir,
I’d rather watch from afar,
With some potential made
Of wondering in my hands
And some hope in my eyes,
Than know what it is to actually own it,
And to feel with every step
That parts of me are missing.

So sir, if you could, plan out a reason
Why it shouldn’t be sold in the future.
So when these young ones bring it to the counter,
You can make them put it back in
The light where it’s safe,
And when the old ones bring it to the counter,
You can make them put it back
In the case of ddealism and dreaming brand,
And maybe, just, be a protector.
Because I’m afraid if you won’t, sir,
Nobody else will.
And I don’t know how much more
Any of us can take before
We just break apart for good.

Empty.

It’s standing on the doorstep,
And has been each Wednesday
Since last spring.

It keeps on knocking,
But only at one time.
Only at 3am.
Because that’s the time
When these things know
You’re the weakest.
And that’s the time when
These things know that
You want to let them come
On the inside,
And you’re getting too tired
To pretend that all you want isn’t
To have them there anymore.
But you turn over on your stomach,
With your back facing out
Because you know if you let it in—
It’ll only want to get back out again.
Because it always wants
What it doesn’t have,
Far more than what it has
And is never in danger of losing.

And when it goes—
It won’t knock,
And re-latch the door correctly
To make sure you’re safe next
Time someone else comes to stay,
Or it’ll sneak out in the darkest of the day,
While your face is turned,
So you have to remember
By the couch, and the curves
That it left by the space that it filled,
Next to you when you came home from work
And you won’t have to know
Your own space,
The one beside,
And how it is that really,
There’s something empty inside of you.
Always.

Today, it’s 3:13 in the morning
And it’s knocking louder than it ever has.
But after knock one-hundred-and-seven,
You roll over with your head under the comforter
And the pillows pulled up by your knees
While the cat stretches by the
Side of your bed.
And you try to go back to your gray dreams
Because this time—
You’re not letting it back.
You’re not giving it a chance.
You’re not letting it close.
You’re not remembering how it can be—
Not since the sweet taste of how it was
Is still caught on the insides of your teeth,
And is causing your stomach to ache.

leavin.

sometimes, there is a need for leaving.
and sometimes, i even love it.
want it.

however, now is not one of those times.
not when it means i gotta be arrivin'
somewhere i can't stand to be.

pocahontas.

on days like these,
i think about cuddling
into the couch cushions
of a sofa that i know
has seen too much, and
turning myself into pocahontas.

i'll build the pillows around
and the afghans above and end
up with something like a teepee
for thoughts that nobody else
has to know about, and nobody else
has to care about, and nobody else
has to worry about dismantling
because someday i'll probably tear
it down myself when it's time
for moving, and it's time for new homes.

i'll click the screen toward play
as i pull my side-swept-braid across
the crease of my neck, and as the
lights in the corner of the apartment
wade up toward the ceiling,
i'll melt into the image of someone
a little more free.

and as i melt, it's only fair to tell you,
that the pocahontas i dream of being,
is more of Walt's creation than a
figure from historic's accuracy.
and in telling you, i know full well
to expect you to tell me it's a tricky illusion,
setting up for what will never be.
but you see, what if that's exactly what i need?
what if i need to think that at least
one existed spirit is free enough to forsake
the expected to chase what she needs?
i just can't imagine it like the history man says.
i can't imagine someone free as the night,
free as I need, would marry someone
who didn't understand her, who didn't
understand what it is to dream.

and as i'm doing all the melting,
toward everything i can't be here,
i'll let you realize that this has
nothing to do with being an indian,
but has everything to do with being a native,
of some, electric place. of something magic.
of somewhere, that belongs with me.
because, i guess what i'm saying is that
even though i can't run through fields of corn
barefoot and have hummingbirds for best friends,
i would wholeheartedly trade this fabricated
attempt at a life for a teepee by the river
for all my days

dominican, heart.

dominican, heart.

this will always feel and breathe of home.

there isn't ever a title for this.

do you remember this?
do you remember me saying i had to go?
do you remember me saying i need to be back?
then why do you keep asking me to stay?

the day before a day of thanks.

the best thing about grocery shopping in the morning--
the gray-haired,
smile-eyed,
basket-pushing old women.
whoever said the grocery market
wasn't something straight out
of the Indy 500 obviously
hasn't been to one the day before thanksgiving.

Spotlight.

i.
wanted.
never.

wanted.
it.
never.

i.
never.

it.
wanted.

never.
it.
wanted.

it.
never.
wanted.

it.
never.
wanted.

never.
i.

i never wanted, It.
i only wanted, You.

Away.

Wave effects in our every move—
You keep coming and going
And coming and going
And I feel you brush against my sides
Pulling
There’s an ocean of others acting the same
In their leaving and coming
And they brush against your sides
To get to all of mine
And I’m feeling you all pull.
And I’m feeling you all pull.
And I’m feeling that I’m the three-year old
Caught in a current that’s not supposed
To be known to her yet.

No Living Room.

She sits up straighter
On the edge of her
Kitchen chair this morning,
Because she heard someone
Might becoming this time,
And she can’t let them see
She’s afraid her interior is sick.

She sits up straighter
On the edge of her
Living room chair this morning,
Because someone did come
And they said they would
Try to fix her.
And he moved with something steady
Doing all they ever know how to do—
With a scientific method
And a formula of thought,
Slipping words of iodine
From his sleeves and
The pockets of his attributes
Tumbling down the back of her throat.
He warned her kindly of the sting
That cleansing these matters always has,
But promised by tomorrow
She could be good as new.

She sits up straighter
On the edge of her folding,
Balcony, chair, this morning,
Because it’s the day after,
But she has this sinking
Because it’s gone all wrong.
And instead she’s got
These stains all over her heart
And her blood feels too thick
And she sits up so straight
Because she’s trying not to feel it
And she sits-eyes strained-
Watching streets from the balcony
Hoping for transportal osmosic
Exchange, and absorbation
Of the traffic’s movement
Into her own veins.

She sits up this morning,
On the edge of her own bed,
And she feels like she’s disappearing.
And she wonders if maybe
This is why she keeps forgetting
The “I”s in all of her words,
And why she keeps thinking about
What she might say if she
Had the chance,
And what she might do
If she had the strength
And what she might do,
If she hadn’t done any of
This in the first place.
And above all,
In this season of falling,
She can’t help but thinking
It’s no wonder that all
She feels, is that she’s a leaf.

Quarters.

What do you know
Of metered breakdowns?
Inserting quarters in time machines
Just to spare a minute
That might let you lose yourself.
Like working in double negatives
Minus the dark room—
Someone hands you a frame
But you break it instead.

Some days ----
It feels like I’m mothering
My soul back to health
Turning around every three seconds to
Make sure it’s still there
And hasn’t wandered off somewhere
Like a child in an arcade
By a coastline.
Drawn by water.
Needing tides.

Yesterday—
I got a fine.
Said they claimed I stayed too long
And didn’t pay enough to do it.
Couldn’t tell them it was because
Soul slipped out of my grip
And ran toward the water.
And I knew this time—
She was gonna do it.
She was gonna leave for good.
And I had to chase, catch, hold.
Or there’d no longer be a need for a meter.
Or a quarter. Or time.
Or even words, for that matter.

And I didn't want to find out
What any taste of that would feel like.
Not when those are the only
Pieces I've got left.

Screen.

he pulls up the chair
and straightens his insides--
he's meeting someone tonight,
and he's been counting down the
days since last saturday,
when she said she'd come.
and he turns on the screen,
because the year is 2082,
and nobody lives outside
a screen anymore.
and nobody lives outside
a line anymore.
and nobody lives outside
'a themselves anymore.

and he takes a breath
before beginning something
he'll neither really have,
understand,
or even truly want
at all.

There Exists a Bench for Butterflies.

I know you--
When the sky is a slate gray color
And you know it’d rather be somewhere else
With a brighter color and a little movement,
When the waves are dusty in an over-used throat
As they come against the sides like they’re trying to remember,
Trying to get somewhere,
Trying to capture you something better than what you have.
And you can’t help but feel a little empathetic.

I know you--
When my feet are wandering planted,
And my emotions come like the tides,
And the sky is always enough,
But you would never tell
Because that means it would leave.
And the earth is always too much,
But you keep it, because you’re afraid
If it knows, it will turn into what you need.

I know you--
When the sky pretends that it’s a mirror
And it doesn’t mind that you keep forgetting,
Because at least it knows it’s needed.
And the sea sounds of your own voice
Because you gave it away while you were
Busy trying something you knew would fall through,
Before you knew the time would come when
All you’d want, is to have it back.

I know you--
When the day feels like it’s ending,
And the waves feel like they’re evaporating,
And the air wraps around like a blanket
Because it knows what it is to be warmer,
When the sea comes into fibers
Woven into sky with expectance
And you can feel it straining,
Desiring something more.

I know you—
When it’s almost dark and there’s only a fleck
Of light caught in the sky,
And everything is still edged in gray,
Because the sky wishes it was closer.
And there’s pulling at all the corners
To keep something from growing cold
And the ocean wishes it was steadier,
To keep you from wondering if you’re going to stay
While the birds come and come
And you hold it all tighter,
To keep from disappearing.

I know you—
When I recover. Myself,
In the sand, by the side,
A little wind carried and
A little exposed,
With a need and a truth:
I can’t remember how it feels to have you anymore.

Instead.

I think he likes the sun
Because he knows it's what he needs,
And I think he needs the sun
Because he knows there's greater things.
And I think he needs the sun
Like she decided it's time to make lists-
And keep them connected to the pages,
Bound tightly, because connected is
Better than crumpled in her fist.

And she knows she wants the lists
Like he knows he needs the sun,
Because these days are coming unspoken
And she believes it might be alright,
As long as they let her keep her feet.
And she thinks it's going to start moving
While he's chasing after the light
Because the middle of the night
Is warmer than it was all last year,
And her notes are scratching
Their way off the sides of the refrigerator.

She has to have her soul ready.

And she knows she wants the lists because
It reminds her she can really know herself.
And he knows he needs the sun because it
Reminds Him that he can really know someone else.

I don't know how to tell them.
That today it all may happen.
And that when it does--
It really is better to abandon a list
To fall in need of the sun.
That dissolving into light is the only way
To keep the bits of yourself from
Erasing at the touch of somebody else's hands.