After the Fight

It is nine in the morning. I wake up crying, eye balls stinging as if slit by papercuts. I spent half the night burying a thousand muffled thoughts into the pillow, anxiety gripping me like quicksand.She looks up, noticing my tears, her puckered lips still blanketing my right nipple. "What are we going to do about that", she asks, that being as elusive as shadows. She takes my hand, and with the peace of a mother, sits me down by the edge of the bed. "Nothing," I say. "People cry sometimes."

We lay back, temples brushing , our heads laying heavy as stones against our beanbag bed. "Do you think one can love too strongly," her eyes like water - tired, blue. "Do you think love creates war?" The tips of her hair escape my fingers; they are slippery and soft,like satin. I reach for them, as if trying to touch light."Love is always good," I say, more to myself than to her. Her eyes close, and she smiles, offering me her trust like a blind to the cane. "Not all things are brittle, meant to be broken and destroyed by time," I suddenly remember a quote from a movie watched the night before. I give her the words like a sermon, hoping she would take them as mine. "Some things grow stronger and better. Right?" She nods. I look at her, searching for her with unknown desperation, as if digging for treasure buried in some past. With the calmness of death we lay still, like repentant children, our arms tucked in each other.

"Yes, I still want to marry you."

Guitar Girl

She speaks to angels.
Her voice is soft, like a whisper of harps,
And her mane, a voluminous flower,
A wild fire sheltering
Her sapphire eyes,
            Lids pressed shut,

Her head
            Bowed in reverie,
Like a saint in prayer.

I fall in love

With the girl that speaks to angels
Her hands, strong
Hold her weapon by the nape - safe -
Like a mother to a child,
The wood stripped naked –
A virgin awaiting the touch. 

I fall in love again

As her fingers trace sharp steel,
Swift, like grass tips
Or the rivulets of a river

When grazed by the shiver
Of the morning breeze.

And the strings, disciples, dutiful and obedient,
Respond to her caress, like lips respond to kisses.

I fall in love again

With the girl with ocean eyes
Who mingles with the angels.
I search for her in every strum,

Listen for her soul in every psalm of her guitar,
Like a star in lost light.

And I fall in love again.

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