Let me be the ink stain 
on the corner left dimple
From where the 
pen bled, and your 
smile leaked words
so quickly, you kept
bleeding- until
the pen dried up
and your creation 
was a skeleton: like you. 
Long torso, with arms 
that make liters 
look like soup cans 
and water taste
like mother’s 
milk: Nourish me. 


Let me nourish 
you, with a hope 
that hibernates
in the wrinkles 
on my tear-stained 
toes and feed you
with a spoon made
of tulips and thyme.

Let me be the way you wish 
to go on the map that I will
draw for you with tattered 
pages from the book Moses
stole from god. For it is in the subtext 
of each commandment
that thou shall not
abandon those who
make you their home.

Let me roll up, both 
your legs, the invisible fraying.
Let me nest you in a hide-away 
made of stars and sunrise, 
nestle you  between 
the pieces of Ursa Minor 
so you will always find your way.

thou shall not
abandon those who
make you their home

Let me remember the night mother
ran away, with blue watercolors framing
her broken eyes, to be back by morning,
painting her mask with a normalcy 
saved for rainbow reflections
and the solitude of dust bunnies. 

Let every knock-knee bend to the floor, 
as daughters worry that their loves
won’t ever return to the beds they made 
three-times over--as if fitted sheets
are the reason it's three AM and he's still
not home. 

Let my fingers envelop yours
when miles fold like vanilla and cream
and hands are spatulas softly watching 
worlds collide. 

thou shall not
abandon those who
make you their home.

Unhappiness is a genetic 
trait, passed down 
amongst the 
women in my family. For 
as long as I can remember, 
Misery’s hid in the crooks
of our eyes. Where our
tears were taught never
to fall. Our eyelashes 
learned to
be strong: hold things keep
our eyes open. What happens 
next is 

So, I’m sorry, if you wanted
to love a whole person. Two hands
that divvy responsibilities, two
feet, on soda cans, balancing 
the weight so neither gets 
too heavy. I'm made with one of each
taught only to extend. 

But I can string together
what sounds like a prayer, 
for a Friday night Kiddush 
though neither of us 
will know what we’re saying. 

 I am a pauper
because you think talk
is cheap. I can only
 string words together: backwards
hearts and upside down squares. 
It’s like us, geometry: 
it looks right—but it’s
not. 

And I’ve thought of
about a thousand ways
to tell you that.  But infinity
is the opposite of definitive
and our thumbprints are 
so unique that we could 
try to match them up 
forever but they will never be 
the same. 

I would rather not
blame the people
who built me 
but I am a flawed 
machine. 
My tears are blood,
my spit is blood, the 
way you pronounce 
my name as you fall
asleep is blood. The 
proud I cannot make
you is blood.

And I am unhappy.  

But right now you'd be filling car tires
with faulty memories. Hot 
air that would peter out
before the highway. People
get stranded by lies like that.

There are no words
that come after
goodbye 
and I am afraid 
of the silence.

(3)

She gazed at me expectantly 
water boiling in her eyes
instead of one baby, they’ll be three. 

A soft hand on her belly
tender look, simple disguise 
she gazed at me expectantly

and asked if I was happy.
After countless pregnant-tries,
instead of one baby, three.

I’d dreamed of a big family  
but nothing quite like this surprise
when she gazed at me expectantly,  

I wondered if there’d be room for me
in a home of warm disguise,
instead of one baby, three 

She gazed at me expectantly, 
instead of one baby, they’ll be three. 

What Water Destroyed

four bath towels we stole from 
le parker meridien
on your twenty-sixth birthday
when we were the only ones 
with pool access. 

a bath mat I bought online 
that says 'clean' on one side
and 'dirty' on the other. It's 
all dirty, now. 

two new toothbrushes

a pair of socks you forgot 

an old note i left on the 
mirror, 'i love you so,
handsome.' 

 

He said a group of kites
is called a mockery

laughing at the way
I chase my string 

through Central Park
on our staycation. 

The little boy whose
Spiderman kite resembles mine

but fits in his tiny hands
so that the string bounces

off his lifeline and across
the picnic blankets.

We grabbed the sheets
off our bed, soiled 

in soil, before laundry
day. Speaking 

only in British accents 
like we could be other people. 

How I Clean Our Room:

Your things first. 
They cover the floor. 
Dirty socks and pennies.

The copper change goes
in a mason jar labelled 
'Fun Monies.' They'll 
add up to something 
some day. 

The dirty socks go into
your maroon hamper.

I fold the shirts you can wear
again, refold my shirts in the dresser
under yours. 

Restoring order. 

The last time I did something
for the first time 
it was you. 

And the shock 
of being a person who still had firsts
sounded like the end of a sentence 

with the typewriter's first ding! 

As if, screaming 
"I'm new to all this." 
Please be patient with me. 

My great aunt's pearls 
are too long around my neck,
bouncing off my clavicle 
like tiny semi-circle promises. 

If I wear them loose
expectations choke me
as if the pearls were too tight
like a fashion statement. 

At the first garden party
where we decided to dress like
flappers, you let me dance around you
until my feet turned blue 

like the oxygen was gone,
even in the middle of the garden,
where everything was budding 
but heavy around my neck.