From the Morning Series: Her Eyes

Each morning your eyes greet me
Like flowers budding to spring.
Your soft lids rise like the curtains
Of a theater,
And I await the performance
Of irises bursting blue
For the sight of a new day.

Your eyes are the stars
That the night forgot to keep,
And I, a thief without apology,
Steal them from the sky,
Accepting no bargain,
Like an ancient queen
Holding on to her crown.  

Sunrise after sunrise
I bury myself in your vision,
And patient like an owl
Welcoming the moon,
I wait for your pupils to dilate
With the promise of my gaze.   

From the Morning Series

Coffee,

It is not that I don't love you, as I have,
Loyally,
All the years that you dragged me
Into adulthood,
The many slumbers we set out to defeat,
Receiving life ahead
In sips - eagle eyed -
Like a cold shower.

It is not that.

Please don't take offense,
I still enjoy
That pep,
That push,
The unwavering vote of confidence
Only you know how to give.
       
              There is wisdom in your silence.

You have been nothing but devoted -
Unfailing - greeting me with patience
(I am not always easy)
Soothing in soft swivels,
Consoling me with steam.

And we still pair quite nicely,
A firm grip for a strong
Taste.
"You can handle anything,"
You seem to say as I swallow
Your dark features -
Round and sturdy -
Like a swollen moon.

You see,
It is not that I don't love you,
But I have come to prefer the
Taste
Of my lover's words - 
Lilts in my tongue -
When she whispers
"Good morning."

The day my grandmother had a heart attack

I was on a date,
Drinking cocktails, listening to jazz
At a speakeasy in the village,
My own heart skipping
With excitement,
Throbbing
With joy.

And while they drove her to the hospital
In the frenzied pit of night,
I wonder if I was gazing at the starlight
In her eyes, thinking of a first kiss,
My heart alive
With fear.

As my grandmother felt for her chest
I probably felt for my own,
Clutched my fists,
My palms cold and sweaty,
Loosened the collar of my neck,
Thinking “this isn’t normal,”

And with her face probably pale,
Her body, unsteady
On the hospital bed,
She told my mother
“There’s no need to worry her,”
Because I, dizzy, like a child after a cartwheel,
Was busy with cities and booze

I wonder if she thought of pasts,
As I thought of futures,
Thought of old age,
As I hammered dreams
To my youth

Wrapped tight in white blankets,
Both our hearts drumming,
Beating,
Dying.

Subway Ghosts

Your ghost roves among the platforms
of the six train,
where we met once
or twice.

I hardly remember each encounter,
except for the lights burning
neon.

“Next stop is Astor Place,”
says the voice of the almighty
operator.

And even still,
every time I pass by Starbucks Coffee
on 8^th and Broadway, I stumble
upon your memory – an apparition
of what once made my heart crumble,
disintegrate like sand,
with the thought of seeing you.

The one train
“is making all local stops”
And that man that we saw
the day of the blizzard,
the one you said you paid
so that you could protect me
is here again, talking to himself,
looking at me in the eyes.

I know now,
it was never
his performance
in the first place.

Frail heels against linoleum.

It is two in the morning, 

and the Times Square station
is full on a Friday.

Smudged red lipstick.

And I dare not look up
until the train comes
fearing that
in the multitude you stand
somewhere waiting
for the train to take us
home.

Scotch and sweat.

It takes seven stops
and thirteen minutes
from Van Cortland
to Washington Heights.

Every morning
on my way to work
I pass by 168,^th
where you take the A.

Why is it that still,
I fix my posture, untie my hair

“Stand clear of the closing doors please.”

If I know that it is not your hand
that is clasping the pole? 

Looking for Love

Like a pauper, I’ve dwelt in corners
Forcing my body to bend
And crack to fit tight spaces
In search of the one thing
I cannot find

I know that human eyes
Cannot penetrate darkness
That after last light, there’s not much
A man can see
But I've also heard the blind speak
Of shape and sizes in ways that I have yet
To comprehend
So I tread, with senses naked,
A soundless shadow
In search of the one thing
I cannot find

Restless, like the pulls
Of a cigarette drag,
From thirsty mouths,
Chapped lips,
A lunatic's mind under the wire,
I cry
Out its name, but I fail
To recognize the voice
Of that I’ve never heard

A drunk to the habit
I fall back, unable to resist
The relief of a first taste
And sick, and dirty with excess
I'm hollow with the void
Of what I have not found

I am a huntsman
After the apocalypse
Wearing my armor,
Fulfilling a duty
That no longer exists

Mirage

What a thing of Beauty it is
To have your naked body
Sprawled upon my sheets
Like flower petals in gardens
What a sight to have you
Free and bare, spread out
Like modern dancers, wide and long,
Like ballerinas
Your body, unveiled
Each trail of skin exposed
Except for that rosy bud of a nipple,
That hides beneath the tips of your hair,
A ripple of my silk sheets sheltering
Your navel, the curve that leads to the shrine
Blessed cloth! I dare not touch it!
What a pleasure it is, it was, it must be
To lock our knees, entwine our shins and calves
Like wild weeds
We must have looked like children, felt like kids
Giggling to each other’s dimples, extending our hands
To the shafts of baby sunshine,
Squinting our eyes from the light of trickling sun,
Like hatchlings in nests
And what a glory,
Darling, what delight
To have your buttocks resting
Like plump pillows on my bed, as if it were your own
I can sometimes feel you slither your way into me still,
Your feet dangling by the edge of the bed,
And I can still feel you
Slither your way into me
And I would look down between sighs
Look down between gasps
To see you lying on your belly, like a body surfer
Stretched like stars
The bones of your back narrowing, releasing
With the motions of your tongue
And I would push you deeper inside me
Pull you by your hair,
Push you from the back of your head
Push you deeper,
Push you deeper inside me,
Like a ship to the tide
Oh, what a sight! Such sacred vision!
When your turn came, to have you
Twitch and tremble, clutch the sheets
With all your fingers, crumple them in fists
When you resist to come
As if they were your own, as if these sheets
Stained and wrinkled like tired faces were yours
To dig your nails in, like carving lovers’ names in sand
Your toes tensed, your head shoved back
Against my pillow, like exorcism
Budging and budging, trying to rip through the casing
And then,
And then     your thighs would relax upon my hands,
Like a soldier after battle
Their weight limp, succumbing to my palms
As if these hands were owners of your hips, your limbs
I would have, should have lived off of that
And to have this bed, the one that bears me
Through my years, be moist with the wetness of you
As if it were your own, darling
And it could have, should have
It is, it was, it must be that I loved you 

Para mi Querida

She holds the world in her eyes
Like a crystal ball, her irises
Contain firmaments, her pupils dilate
Like night
In its edges I see horizons
Like a sailor looking out at sea
And knowing shelter

Her eyes have a way
Of gleaming gray, like the moon
At midnight, or the shade
Of first snow, and I,
A silent servant to her stare,
Settle in them,
Like a stray warming to fire

My girl gives me soft smiles
Like a child caressed by the sun
Soft as the promise of heaven
Or dandelion heads in spring

Her laugh is the echo of dreamers
Long lost in confusions
And I, submissive witness,
Relish in it like an artist
That hasn’t known failure,
A kid that hasn’t met pasts

I have made my girl tremble,
Her hips raise like tsunamis,
Soaking everything it touches
Like a determined wave
Her thighs, strong as columns,
Respond to my touch
Like the wind to birds’ wings,
Or a cry to its sorrow

And my girl wears T’s
Like a baseball player,
And her hair is a mane
Too careless to tame
And her heart thumps like thunder
Her eyes glow like rain
And her laugh speaks in tongues
Like churches at Christmas

My girl starts to giggle
When I say “I love you”
Her grays tend to swell
Like sunflowers in bloom
And I, still as mirrors,
Am a blind recovering sight
Rapt by the power
Of a woman unflawed 

Coming Out

I knew  

With the tips of my fingers sick,
Trembling to touch her skin,
Graze the hairs of her arms,
Soft as dandelion heads.
Aching to soothe the calloused spots
Between her second and third
Knuckle, the bone reflecting
White beneath the surface

I knew

Reaching her collarbone,
The dent of her throat,
My eyes, slits behind sheets,
Feeling the lump of her mole
Like a small mound.
Tracing the bends of her back,
Cupping the sides of her breasts,
Pale and limber, their weight
Surrendering to my palms

I knew  

Groping her inner thigh
My febrile hands, two silent prowlers,
Traveling higher, the confluence
Of her body like a shrine.
Brushing the edge of her lips,
Feeding from each crack and blister,
My lips, like tremulous snakes,
Unsealing the partition,
Our tongues, like ravenous vipers,
Invading the insides
Of our mouths in a séance,
Exchanging warm breaths,
Sharing deep gasps 

I knew

Praying for the squeal
Of the door, waking
To puffy eyelids, tousled hair
Longing for her voice, like searching
For the ocean in a shell,
Counting her brushstrokes,
Knowing her smell, like one knows
The scent of a new season,
Loving her,
Loving her unrequited