what is said and what is done

you can’t trust a stranger with your truth

you get fed up of speaking so much

and listening to so little. you can ask

a question and it turns into an accusation.

you can guess his name, but he changes

the letters on you. you can tell him

i love you

he’ll stare at you

as if you should not have said that

and when you turn your back

he’ll respond

i love you

years later, and you will wonder

does he even mean it

is he saying that to shut me up?

you can love him

so much the ache keeps you up at night.

you can stare at his photo all you want

but his sunglasses are always on

he won’t look you in the eye,

he won’t fight for you, he won’t

make you pick. he wants you

sitting tight, never asking

where he goes, or why he only

shows you what he wants

you to know. he is happy

not having all of you.

he only wants you for an hour

not eight.

don’t take it personal

he told you so

but he refuse to listen

when you should.

it’s fine now, after seven years

you finally realized

he has been telling you

the truth all along

you just didn’t pay attention.

making my lists before dawn

even if it looks as if I am living my life

I am always writing in my head

about the time my hydrangeas stopped blooming and turned green

that time I waited inside the Met looking at the Greek statues and you never showed up

going to the top of Tokyo and almost barfing

your manicured hands on my pre-teen skin

the apartment number I lost my virginity in

picking you up after a meeting and having a latte on Chabanel street

Crying in a bathroom with blood on my thighs

confessing to a tombstone

never going to church except for weddings and funerals

loving you more than you ever will

expecting too much from nothing

making lists of dog bones, tablecloths and mouthwash

and still you somehow squirmed yourself into my words again

without ever trying.

If

If the water on the windowsill

could be your molecules

they would give me a paper

to smell

a pen to place safely away

near my utensils

think of me when it rains

how the droplets

become you and me

falling from the sky

like bullets on a battlefield

like trees in the rainforest

sometimes still

most times turbulent

aged and chopped

preserved and honoured.
From “Love & Vodka”

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💙💙💙

At it again

I woke up early to collect data for poets

that know how to write but not how to read.

I woke up from dreaming about you,

to pointed fingers and mirrored poetry.

There is this effect of how the sun

reminds me of cool sand gliding through

my fingers on a black beach.

 

I lie down

and stare at the blue sky in awe. Nineteen

years old, dark tight skin, golden reflections

in my hair, I was a brunette then, pure olive

love. One foot is on a rock, flat belly

yellow striped bikini, puffy eyes behind

liquored nights. You’re an ellinitha

the Greek men would say and admire.

 

I write poetry for fun apparently, but you

do not know how it hurts. I submit to be

recognized and sell my soul some more,

but you do not know how the perfect amount

of ice, vodka and cranberry can knock out

the slips. I forgot how to type to remember

how to think. I hope you understand

all the secrets can only be spilled

over eyes on eyes

feet under the table

hands holding a glass of envy

it is the ways of the social media underworld,

the selected few

who have the perfect tattoo,

smile, angst, whiskey breath,

it is the epitome of everything

we are against.

Trust me, you are better off

not knowing and judging

from afar.

 

Thank you for taking the picture.

Anytime, he says and winks

in that flirting, I’m on vacation way

where nothing matters

but the temperature.

 

I am at it again,

the addiction rising.

The morning coffee stirring,

the need to find all the information

at my fingertips, except how

to get to that sky again. IMG_9615

 

Renaissance

If I ever had writer’s block you would see me dead

at some corner in a bar with your typical

bottle of Jack and burnt notebooks. I swear

if  I lost the ability to think through poetry

and write about my ripped up demons,

my past haunts, my future encounters,

then I would be dead inside for sure.

I can barely breathe now with how

real life sucks up my soul in conference

meetings, evaluation of employees,

frustrated children, parents who

neglect, my faults piling up

as I see how awful I could be

when confronted with life,

car crashes, headaches, aging,

poems pouring out like coffee

from a pot.

I took a class at Concordia

called The Renaissance

the History professor

proved that all these statues

had a story, all these white perfect

Roman gods had the same life

as the Greeks, changed a name

deleted a column, added an arc

and revived humanity.

If only I could do the same with poetry

make it my battle

rebirth

to the art that few protect.

Grab your pen

paper

raw words

and create

a new renaissance.

What else is there to do

except your nails? or your hair?

or your membership at the gym

needs renewal,

don’t forget to post pictures

of you and hubby at so-so restaurant

yes, I’ll be over here,

writing poems

and showing you my heartache.

You never knew I could write.

I know.

You thought I was just another wife,

but you saw it in my eyes.

You told me that once

I remember everything.