positivity

1.
with every breath in
i build in my mind a tower of light.

i fold my legs together, then my fingers


once, i drew a picture of this
black and filled the hands in with yellow.
placed it on a plastic tube

like everything i make, burns.

2.

twenty minutes every morning
i focus on what could come
arms and legs moving through a day
my mind
two magnets
i detract thoughts
with books
with knit pearl knit
with painting my sister'sniece'smother's toenails
by overdosing on bottled water.

korea

in the night
my american bones pressed against
heated cement floor
i ache for something that gives.

four fingers away
the woman who is my mother sleeps
begins to cry
a small tube of sound from her soft center
her coarse day voice in the dark
whistling high
and then my name
follows
the words she placed on my forehead at birth
she is calling me.

her two tooth mouth agape
i can only turn
sharp hip on stone
and will it to end.

february twelfth is full of farewells

1.

what, have i done. 

my suitcases too heavy to pick up with two hands 

but 

i say quietly

this is everything i have.

i'm not afraid, but i cannot see what's coming.

write she said. don't forget to write.

2.

my best friend looks nothing like me

but she is my best friend.

i open a card she has placed in an ivory envelope

and suddenly my face is wet, my nose, the ink filled paper.

across the airport, an older korean woman watches me

the yellow beneath her eyes reddening

im glaring at her, i feel the fangs beneath my upper lip emerge 

sharp.

3.

i push the words down with spoonfuls of soup 

biting into jalapeno skin, crisp to forget what i'm doing here

well, i say, throwing my cigarette to the ground. 

i want this to be over

i want to be alone on that plane

an ocean between us

to forget.

he looks at me, or my right ear

my hand gathering the black around me, cold.

why so dramatic he laughs

my fingers grasping 

his elbow, my mouth settling for his dimple. 

he forgets what it's like to know me 

to love me, or he would.

i turn without looking back

willing him to miss me, to want me like 

two bodies in a quiet room of books.

4.

joel says goodbye

tears streaming down his face

his lower lip catching the time between us. 

i'm a pint of whiskey in, squinting into his sadness

we touch hearts and whisper the word special

so quietly, neither of us will forget.

5.

two forks, nachos, two corn quesadillas and a side of rice on the bed

beth and i eat lying down spinning crying. 

we hold hands and try to sleep.

the weeds have moved on to a quiet place

​1.

lately, i hear my mouth

practic​e the word seoul​

like i speak the language the sounds spell.

whom i am nearing

approaches.

​

it is monday​ and the dreams return​.

2.

the specks in ​her skin like lemonseeds in a straw

inside of me, sour sprouts 

​grown, like she​ imagine​s i haven't​.

 

l remain inside the ​flawed b​lue-flow  

of her histor​y, a child's body now dust under soil.

 

everything inside is made of stone

saying it is easy.
i map out a year from
intention , my closed self
a bouquet of so many reasons to go.

i saw you on a friday my love
pressed between hunger and night
wearing familiar pieces of past
fingers flicking the space between
we occupied
a glass of beer, intermittent pulls from another cigarette.

i trace my memory over you, the grey shape you are
flawless i look for ways to forget
to pick your dark edges with fingernails
crisp cover of healed

i am
in your hands, a fresh wound at the ready.
show me how
to peel away permanent.

negativity

cursed, she said. her palm open near my chin
her eyes on me groping
the grey bruised pear seated in her pink satin window.

all ears for the cause
i placed my two hundred dollars to the right of her fingertips
yes i said, nodding, the tears warm
a body living
with two first fingers i hear myself pointing

a curse, i nod
my mouth pressing the blame around it
quick
like twenty minutes twice a week
i wear my willing , my take me
topstitched to gold ribbon on my hip

like three rings of
everything gone wrong.

brilliant

a small grey stone in a pond, i watch a year

stretch itself closed, without heavy sighs

       nor early morning

            intoxications as delusion.

instead, i

turn to my green ghost self

collecting smoke in her familiar way

grasping the pen to resolve

with both hands.