My father buys plums and asks me not to ruin them this time.
When he leaves the room, I press my thumbs
into them until the skin gives out, until the whole kitchen is muscle and juice,
dark-purple in desperation.
I can’t remember the word for touch in Spanish, can barely remember it
in my own tongue.

For three days I was a stranger in your city,
Pressing my palms to a train window
Watching for the blue glint of the bay.
I thought I might find you in the water’s thin skin,
In the creamy foam, speckled and bearded with wrack.

I was not born in these kinds of waters
but I came to believe and to canoe away
on the river of silty glass
bugs skating the surface
sunlight pouring into me
laughter echoing off the empty
voices raised, poles poised, fish fleeing upstream even.

I am going to pay a man
to stand by my car
and protect it
from the nomadic thieves
of the grid deserts,
the car I dreamed about
when I was a child
when I was unemployed
when I was weeping
in small painted rooms
with my hands in a ring.

Kids, when I cut out of this life,
don’t turn on the tears and grieve;
kids, when I die I don’t want
any golden speeches saying kind things
about me or some windbag sniveling about
death’s sting, God’s grace and
the triumphant rise to heaven.

I feel forty-six pieces of her
forming inside of me:
Her fingers dig into the underside of my belly
button, and her feet kick ferociously
for freedom.
In this moment, I want to yell for her
to stop searching for a way to escape this haven.

Hello?
You don’t know me; but,
I am so excited to speak with you.
Strangers—
at once the same…but different.
Divided by violence
Splintered and torn from one another
Families…
Friends…
Strangers…

The fish
flops
against
the
table
with its last breaths.

I forget it only “breathes” in water,
but just the same…

in my homeland little girls and
grandmothers are knotted with silk-threads
called stories
grandmothers walk nimble-footed
to the past, careful not to fall into
memory’s ditch
little girls traipse on it, tumbling
on fantasy and sport, daring
to dream

Some move through the deeper pool
without stopping while others
pause to gather strength
for the shallows ahead.
Those that make it over
the gauntlet of stones buried
by water that would not wet
a cuff thrashing their tails
mightily making waves

Rose oil, sandalwood
and lavender—poured over
honeycomb piles deep in
rumbling woods. Bare feet
missing twigs, silence heard
but for birds, and low hums of
red earth.

Cacophony of instruments rudely disrupt the silence in my ears & claim the space as their own to live and thrive. First, the saxophone with its tang & pang & variety & what is. Piano, forte, mezzopiano repeat. The tongue pitter patters on the mouthpiece, embouchure tightening its hold, showing no signs of regression yet soft and silky.

If this train car were mine, I’d hang plants from the / metal bars. I’d stain the windows—blue, yellow, / pink, blue again, green. When I ride above this / Dorchester, the orange sky will pour onto my white / curtain lace, my stacks of books, my blushing skin.

Dear Girl,
You anxious broken queer girl.
You waterfall you crystal ball your future bright and clear, Girl.
Lips painted red, head high and proud, they’ll tremble as you near, Girl.

The boats string along the seam
of green and blue waters,
white mites on a fish vein,
trailing thin proboscides
that must be bitten to succeed.

He lived a long life—a normal span of / 9 to 5 and bright eviction notices on front doors. / He would tell his wife every night before bed, / “I will wake up tomorrow and do better.”

Days like blossoms
Some, green buds
Reluctant to push away
The wooden bed frame
On which they rest

The doves find a spot
Of shade under a bench
And sit together, quietly
Speaking about the world
Of people and rain.

this poem is the story of us/
written
between two pieces of paper/
he talked about us as though
he is not one amongst us/
as far
as i’m telling the story, the talk is
about us, ie, you and me and him/

of mass shootings and love and chopsticks and bridges and warmth and cherry blossoms and expectations and acrostic poems and
m Maybe it’s naïve for me to expect the world to scream
a and shoot just because another human is shot.
s Silence is not the absence of a gunshot.
s Silence is the presence of a bulletstorm.

She walks in, seventeen and agate-pale, to view the Difference Engine No. 1 with her maman—blue taffeta, white veil, herself a fearsome intellect and bastion of social justice. Great gold instrument, steam engine structure and pipe organ height, exquisitely bewitching. Ada, intent on further knowledge,

My hair is wet and drips. Water collects
breeze-chilled
in the small of my back.
The time is half-past
bittersweet. The day ends simply
and begins. Exhausted, refreshed,

Mostly brown fields salted with white patches of snow— moist from winter’s thaw and the coming green of spring. It’s there in the going and coming of seasons, the earth swallows your fading white form as you walk away. I follow to the blue horizon wishing you would not depart.

I hate shaving. Thinking enlists in its war. The two dimensions of reflection summarize me. Foam licks my temporal chin, I confess to the razor how I’m leaving immortality behind for someone else to believe in like a dolt.