Jar of Regrets

Once I placed all the sand from Center Island Beach

into a tiny Ziploc bag, then my god sister Dina

spread cream cheese and honey on Breton crackers

at half past two in the morning

and we all got up out of bed to talk until dawn.

I tool the airplane alone

at sixteen and spent my days

on others’ schedules and landslides.

It was warm and humid in the city.

We took subways all the way into Queens

and Flushing, disregarding cigarette butts

in alleyways. I still feel impressed with

graffiti and shoulder pads. My crazy Aunt Eleni

drove like a mad woman up and down Fifth Avenue

honking and calling everyone a malaka

god rest her sweet soul, she must have been

an angel to take care of all of us crazy teenagers.

There was a jar of regrets on her nightstand

it held some shells

from Cape Cod when my parents

and she and my uncle went on their honeymoon.

It was a double wedding, she laughed, we rented

our gowns, your mom and I.

We took a taxi ride. None of our parents

were here, we were free.

I have this jar of tiny rocks and gems

I collected  from

Santorini. It means that regrets


have a time span,

can remain static,

or you can take them out

look at them

feel them

lock them back up again

where they have no air to breathe.





When you come back

you’ll see how deadly

I bite.

I kept your secrets

as you kept mine,

it was an exchange

of the souls,

some that meet briefly,

others that depart hastily.

I may be an earth sign

but my heart is water

my soul is fire

my body is air

and your presence

is in my blood.

You should know nothing

is real in realms.

Every poem is a continuation

of the one only meant for you.

You love her so madly, It’s lovely.

It’s how a man loves his dog

and every woman swoons.

Still I read,

you read,

it may be somewhat of a variation

thematic structures

unique to us,

but if I slip your mind

I promise to hang on

that steel step. Hope is

my downfall,

my rise.

I wait for you to slay

all your demons

come back from your hell.

This silence is madness.

In September I give most of what

I settle for away to strangers.

I’ll cry if it’s my birthday,

I’ll shop at bookstores only.

I start to plant my new seeds

right about the 19th of September

as I lay naked,

in touch with my femininity

my masculinity,

swirling in hues of gold and purples

this aura conspiring with me,

as I take all my addictions

and drink them,

collect some poems

for my grave,

people like us, we’re too sensitive

to the touch,

cry too easily.

Do you feel the words

on your lips, mouth, tongue?

Do you see how they hurt

when you swallow them?

This is why I must regurgitate

all of them

and place them

in my Virgo order.

My steel

becomes tragic

in its element,

always because

of how I feel for you.