Once

I videotaped the bridge and the sunset

I wanted to be a director

make movies. I have all these

ideas of how I would begin my movie

the perfect song, kiss, walk,

the sunrise of actors. It feels

as if my dreams keep on copulating

instead of dying. Almost half way

through my life and I feel seventeen.

Stuck at that age that took me

for granted. I love your art and music

and style, the way you kiss me

in the middle of the street. I love your

sixth sense, how you still love her

how you break walls with words

no need to even touch me

you did it first. so masterfully.

I keep on fantasizing about

directing movies, my other lives

coming to life, my poems

ripped up and in the ocean

so you could read them

one day

when you’re lying on the beach

with your beautiful family

and remember

I was just a piece of art.

 

Sadness in July

I wish I had more to say of how words

destroy my sanity. I wish you knew

me then

when I had nothing to lose.

I hope to see you again

when I can walk straight.

feeling drunk on words and fights

lately, crying all night long

i suppose aging is a phase

and suddenly not caring about

your tongue in my mouth

is an outright cancerous lymph

in my pride. I meant to be wet

for you but kept on thinking about

the mundane things.

You should have fucked me drunk

I am better than the dead.

I hate myself today

and I feel like a bad mom

but she whispers  in ocd sentences

I’m the best.

I read too much

nonsense.

So I listen to silence instead.

I wish you would have known

me then. in another life

when i was such a poetic slut

now i’m too old for your games

your wolf tricks

time eats up my lines

and leaves me volatile

vulnerable

aching for less clocks

and more moments

with the dead.

I’ve done it all

my time has passed

now it is time

to feed my soul.

I run instead

or drive fast

reciting Virgina Woolf in my head

and feeling lonely in my bed.

July should be the best month

but I don’t care about jazz

or laughter

anymore.

 

I have been adreaming

I am worrying about all the things you do;

if I have enough milk for tomorrow

if the dry cleaners ticket is lost again

when will I reply to my emails

how will I wait for you

when the waiting room is empty.

 

How much gas do I have

to get to you?

What is the distance between my house

and yours?

How long does one wait for later days?

 

Reality is a naked body

faced down in sorrow

over smeared lipstick

and a lost wad of money.

 

Drugstores do not have enough medication

for leaving you

for never seeing you again.

This lost feeling is just me

missing your face close to mine

and how you feel against my skin.

Sorrow is a burden to carry

from one city to the next

and all the places

we will never meet

and all the ones we did.

 

I find myself

facing a blank page

filled with words to describe you

but never define you.

You come and go

easily

I wait for u turns

but it’s a one way street

to your heart.

 

I pass too many train stations

on my way to work

that never carry my suitcase.

 

 

 

Postpartum

I was thinking of writing a love poem

as usual

driving to get my Tim Horton’s

the words on the edge of my mind

about the invisible strings

in the sky connecting us

then I read about the three young angels

dead in Delhi, found one after the other

wrapped in postpartum love

and all the memories come back

of Amanda and Sabrina

how we loved them

cherished them

consoled the mom when her husband ran away

only to find out she too

had left them on the couch

with prescription drugs

and ran from her melancholy

smashed into a pole.

All these angels surround us

killed by the love of a mother

we give life not take it away

and so many mothers

struggle with their own breast-milk

their minds listening to voices

we can’t hear

their love consumed by fears

concocted death scenes

terror

little floating bodies in rivers.

It’s the ones we know who have

died this way

that shatter our dreams

like those two angels I taught

and still hang onto

their drawings

the little one with ginger hair

and loving eyes

the older one holding on

to sad goodbyes.

They were the exact same age as my

children.

The reasons don’t matter

when you see white tiny

coffins.

Hideaway

It does not matter what
I say to you
when you bring
down the pain
and hug it
like a newborn
needing to relive
every spiteful word
she said
by
taking down
picture frames
to create new ones.
It does not matter
how I see it
because my green eyes
ignite you.
I feel your
sadness now
when you ache
empathy
encompasses me
that’s how I’m made
with loyalty and heartache
with knowledge
and truth.
I can see through
screens
cracked mirrors
I can write in your mind
trace your body’s shape
on top of mine.
I let you in now
it’s too late
to change fate
anyhow.
I can feel the walls
caving in
and I
can let you be
but, mon amour,
know that
no matter the state
you’re in
I can handle
you.

IMG_8067.PNG

Wavy

All insipidly  wavy inside of me

like the texture of my hair 

yet you reach for it.

Some songs can bring me 

to the edge of the sea

ready to plunge, 

others suck my soul bare

Pain pulling each string

piece by piece.

 

Most women love to gas up, pile in the bags

pretend they are content

and read Fifty Shades as if it’s a masterpiece. 

I do roll my eyes, and admit I am

a literary snob. Don’t hug

me unless you are ready for the

studded belt. Don’t kiss me 

either, my lipstick stains. Don’t emoji 

me, I’m not sold on it. But thank you

for the laughter,

as much as you take

away me essence

you give it back in abundance

I am so topsy-turvy in love

regardless of what I write

or how clever you think I am

you never need to read it. Pretend

I do not write. Let me smoke and 

drink wine discussing art and all 

I look forward to, nothing I’ve left

unscathed. Rumors unfurled,

denying everything but the way the 

smoke exhales

I love it when you love me

for myself and nothing else

you hate me so passionately

it is what I need. Both in one 

day, in one sentence. You only 

know. 

it has kept me invincible

to men who try to sneak in

between my monologues.