In twenty years
we’ll remember:
beach-chairs and toes in the water,
ice cream cones that drip down your fingers,
sunsets on balconies,
and joy.
In ten years
we’ll remember:
anxious nights and anticipation,
fast food burgers with melted cheese,
winter air on pale skin,
and worry.
In five years
we’ll remember:
study sessions and highlighted words,
ramen noodles and dirtied forks,
flood lights through windows,
and tiredness.
In two and a half years
we’ll remember:
isolation and regret,
home cooked meals drenched in butter,
air condition bouncing off prison walls,
and hope.
Now
we’ll remember:
nothing,
and only dream.
We are settled,
and you are burying
Your face in your hands,
embarrassed by your past;
your pale face turns strawberry red
and I want to taste
those lips.
But I refuse,
for we are settled
and you are not yet
ripe.
My bother looks over
the Jackson Pollock
hanging in the Houston gallery—
Number 6—
duco and aluminum paint on canvas.
He asks me what I think,
but it does not matter,
he is in a huff
his face is flushed,
red.
He stares into it—
Number 6—
and he is happy.
The Hyacinths
spiral up my chest
and pick apart my skin
as they form
into bushes of bright purple
which expand out
and overtake me
with their curls.
[1] [2] [3]
Marie,
would you believe
that today—
early in the morning—
the Hydrangeas opened,
and when they did,
I cried,
and tried to close them;
but, could only cripple them,
pluck the petals,
and tear the fruit from the limbs
and leave the stems
naked?
[1] [2] [3]
Your eyes are closed
as my lips approach you
and kiss your forehead
for the last time.
And I think:
What do you think?
What do you know?
And I want to know—
lips pressed against your head—
what do you know,
what do you think,
and will I ever
understand?
I run through fields
of pristine pink Hibiscuses—
the type that used to grow
in my grandmother’s garden
each spring,
around her death—
and I am chased
by the hive of honeybees
that see me,
as something
sweet.
And I am running,
to water,
or to cover.
But still the Hibiscuses
spread out around me,
like ghosts.
[1] [2] [3]
May is long,
as eyelashes pinned
against walls of blue,
that flutter and flicker in the sun.
June is pink,
perched plump lips
dipped in Honeysuckle.
While July is loud,
explosive,
bombshell blonde—
with a hint of rain.
Yet August winds down,
lays bare and deserted
like sunburned skin
near San Antonio freckles.
And summer is hot;
sweltering sweet sweat
that falls down our forehead
and disappears into the atmosphere.
You have your mother’s eyes
and your father’s heart—
the same that failed him,
three years ago
on the day before your graduation—
left him on the ground,
dying.
And, your mother’s eye—
the ones that you possess—
were red with hate,
and salty.
But you had your father’s heart
and your mother couldn’t last,
and you in your brilliance
had to wipe away the salt,
and carry on.
Then when your mother fell apart
you left for California
with a copy of Big Sur
in the back seat.
You drew circles around the coastlines,
doodled stars in the margins,
highlighted all the pretty words
while your mother’s mind dissolved.
And when she died
in February, from the cold,
your father’s heart watched your mother’s eyes
in the mirror
and fell apart—
broke.
With your mother’s salty eyes
and your father’s thatched heart,
you were sure to die,
by forty.
And so,
you traced circles around the places you’d want to see,
live,
cherish.
But your mother’s eyes blurred the pages,
and your father’s heart would not allow it
and you knew you would die,
like he did,
the day before your graduation.
There was a moment:
sun-specked lips upon pink flesh,
and then,
and then:
there was another.
And then,
oh and then and then,
there was a moment,
as there shall be a hundred more.
I wanted power
and Vonnegut
and freedom.
I wanted languished locks of limericks
trickling down the tongue.
Pink flesh and thighs,
wide eyes, sharp tongues,
Bigheads, Broad Shoulders,
piercing perfect pitch,
and fidelity.
I wanted power,
I wanted strength.
