Your brown eyes shone mysteriously in the glow of the streetlight. Your hand tightened responsively in mine. Our walk was crooked, a little crazed. The moon harbored a tender coldness. We were not alone, but our heartbeats were racing each other. The snow had barely permeated the ground that cold November night. You came to me like a voyager across the Bering. We had laid with our anticipations long enough. Your black hair was growing out again. Waxing like the moon. My body was shaking. A thin veil of calm covered the perpetual butterflies. My mouth was dry. My tongue was always in the way. Thoughts were incoherent; I said things I never meant to say. The Christmas lights kept flashing as you spun around me. We barely spoke for what more could we say? Words were superfluous, dangerous on that gin and tonic stained dance floor. I tied a blue scarf around my head. You didn't even mention it. I wore heels too tall to dance in. You drank beer: Coors Light--my favorite. I drank everything in sight. The lights changed colors. The bedroom became smaller. I did a somersault in the hallway. You slept with me in my little bed. We were lost. You were naked. I was naked.

Preface to I am Nepali?

Water ravages, pillages,
Destroys, as does the human heart
Water heals, rebirths,
Cleanses, as does the human heart

Water seeped out of the vast heavens, out of the toothed mountains, out of the very pores of the earth and flooded the expectant valley. The water roused the hushed valley in mere days, distributing sheets of freezing elixir. As the monsoon subsided, she arrived completely unnoticed. She had trickled out of the mountains alongside the life force of the village; her tiny figure rode the thrashing waves of the winter water. The villagers had waited all through the barren winter for the water’s arrival. Now they could finally start the sullen process of rebirth. She too had waited all winter for rebirth.


At the first sign of water, the villagers waded together in waves. Steadily flowing over each other, they discussed the weather and the prospects of this year’s harvest. They half heartedly joke about their offerings and wonder silently if they should make more. They wonder if they should plant more wheat or maybe more rice. They wonder if they will fare better than they did last year, or will they need to turn out their elders? Youngsters? Themselves? Then they back rhythmically away, back into their individual rivers of misery. On their backs they carry with them their broken children, their mundane histories, their shame. Slowly they follow the mountain river that had borne each and every one of them. None of them understood what they owed to that river. Their offerings would never be enough. They did not understand how precariously their lifelines were hung. They did not understand who or what had actually hung them. But she understood. She understood the pain that bathed them everyday, but she also understood the sacrifices that needed to be made. The river was in just as much pain. This she knew.


They sway of the trees in the distance had kept the villagers paddling throughout the years. They knew their lives were their own no matter how painful or worthless they seemed. They also knew their lives were all that they had. As children they believed they were going to create their own histories regardless of the consequences. They were going to chip the mountainside and leave their names upon that stone of ages, but somehow, somewhere in the bouncing of the seasons they never had the time or energy to reach it. They were but visions in the wind, blowing away as quickly as they had come. But she was determined to be the master, the mother of the world. She held that mountainside to her chest. She spent her days chiseling the histories that no one remembered, that no one cared to remember. She had decided to leave the rugged mountainside to be their memorial. Its creaking body watched the villagers and with its arthritic hands it shielded them. She was like a cloud floating over the endless seas. She would record the waves of the silent and the forgotten.

Black Hurricane Eyes

The fog swirls above the mountains like the steam that ascends from the tea that is delicately sitting in dainty china that many have gotten for their weddings. The fog proceeds to clink down the mountainside and waft in and out of the valley, steaming the farmland, the rice paddies, the children. The fog pervades every breath in its ancient mist, leaving its delicate taste behind. She hides in its daintiness, making no sound and no one sees her tiny frame. In the distance, in the middle of the village, a lone figure, wrapped in dreamy blue, stands in the heavy mist. She steams under the morning sun, as the wind playfully tugs at her midnight hair, causing it to billow out from under her loosely tied veil which is also made of dreamy blue. She stares fiercely ahead of her with her hurricane eyes, as she staggers through the dirt street. Eyes peer at her, wondering where she came from and where she is headed. Her eyes search all around her. No one has seen her here before. Her eyes dart towards her audience. Blazing blue, she lets out a scream, and throws herself upon the ground. Her body convulses a few times and then she is still. Death has taken her and she flows away.


A crowd encircles the heap of blue lying prostrate upon the dirt. Seconds pass, minutes pass, lifetimes pass. The eyes start drifting away off to their daily tasks. They mumble to each other. Each one wondering who this woman was and where she might have came from. Some contemplate the places that she could be going. Why would anyone come through this village though? They comment on her expensive clothing and wonder who’ll be the ones to pawn them off. They shake their heads. The sun moves higher into the sky causing the valley to heat up. The shuffling of the crowd becomes quicker. Then a piercing cry juts out from the blue heap into the crisp morning fog. Everything stops. They villagers turn towards the heap to ascertain if they heard correctly and were not dreaming up the noise. They give each other nervous glances. Then just when they think that they made up the cry, full fledged screaming is sounded throughout the valley, bouncing off the mountainside and reflecting off of the water. Even the fog quits moving its chilly old hands. The villagers look at each other expectantly. Someone should go and check to see what is under that heap. Someone should go and try to stop the crying. As the seconds pass into eternity the pitiful cries seem to push the fog out of the valley. Everything stands stock still.


Time passes as the wailing becomes just muffled crying. Still nobody has moved a muscle. What are they expected to do? That child could be possessed by evil spirits. They all saw how its mother died. No good could come from that. A tiny girl climbs out of the fog and nimbly edges her way through the crowd. She floats to the heap of blue, and bends down. She pulls the veil to reveal a once perfectly made up face with creamy browned skin sans free of a wrinkle, and a fresh bindi that is streaked by blood and tears. The lips are chapped but perfectly curved, and her nose is delicate as are the almonds that stare intently at her. The hair surrounding her head is soft and clean as if she had just recently bathed and she smells of lavender. The tiny girl then pulls at the dreamy blue wrappings that would have cost more than all the revenue in the village added together to reveal a broken body oozing blood from numerous wounds. The most prominent and recent one: a stab to the heart. The blue heap’s neck is outlined by a thin gold string and beads. Its arms are covered in sparkly bangles that flirtatiously clink together as the girl rolls the heap over onto its back. Rings of ruby and diamonds cover its delicate fingers. Finally, in its right hand, is held a bloody knife.


The tiny girl reaches for the crying bundle tucked forcefully into the bosom. She picks it up and uncovers a cherub, red-faced and practicing its hunger cries. She pulls cloth out of its mouth and rubs its back. The same black hurricane eyes are pasted onto the baby. They are rimmed red from all the crying. The lips are curved the same as its mother. She pulls the necklace and the veil off of the heap and adorns the baby with it. She also takes the beads. The tiny girl, who looks so young but has traces of aging on her, instinctively holds the cherub to her chest. The cherub starts to root, and its mouth searches hungrily for milk, when it finds none, the crying gets louder again. She gives the cherub her fingers to suck on and the crying dies down. Then the tiny girl turns toward the crowd that has silently watched her and deftly pushes her way toward the river--fulfilling the journey that the baby’s mother was attempting to make before her untimely demise. Her tiny body bobs up and down the dirt path until the fog eats her and the wailing child up in its ancient mist.


The fog dissipates over the blue heap, which has been left untouched by anyone. The body wrapped in such extravagance is starting to decay. The stench is starting to annoy the villagers but they are too afraid to move her. They secretly all hope that a hungry animal comes to the valley and takes the woman away. Some of the villagers also hope that someone will come and claim this poor wretched being. But no one has come. The skin has started to wrinkle under the blazing sun, but the oddly black hurricane eyes are still intact. They stare off into the distance unrecognized by anyone. The black hurricane eyes stare forever into eternity.


Blue Rock, Sandal Tree
The Sun Shines over me
Clouds sail in the sky
As I slowly drown and die

The clouds descend upon the moon as if trying to blot it out, but they are too thin and some of the yellow streaks escape and scatter all over her face. The moss laden trees rustle as she passes quickly by. Their long branches they reach towards each other to point out the traveler. They whisper to each other like the old brown paper bag ladies that watch the children in the village too old to do anything else. They’re pretty sure they have seen her before, making this pilgrimage, but they cannot be entirely sure. Many women make this trek every year, every month, every week. Every girl in the village anticipates her first time to Blue Rock, Sandal Tree. The trees lean in to take a closer look. All these women look the same. It is hard to keep them all straight. They all have the same quickened pace, while they sneak glances behind and to the side, not really sure what they are looking for. Their faces, they attempt to cover with their soft muted veils and their hands are always trembling under the weight of their offerings. But this one was different. She didn’t even wear a veil and her hair was cut short, something no woman in the village ever did. The trees are certain they have seen someone resembling her, but she was much younger looking; the round face had been replaced with bone and the lines of an old woman had started to trace her face. The gossiping trees lean in to take a closer look. Yes, they are sure they have seen her. In fact they have seen her pass through on this pilgrimage three times.


This time though, her face is set—an almost angry look. Her walk is much stronger too. In her brown arms, she cradles a muffled bundle draped in dreamy blue. It must be her best dress the trees reason; she will no longer need it now and it seems appropriate for her offering to the river. She can feel the dew start to form at her feet as she pushes onward down the long dirt path that has been travelled by many before her, and will be traveled by many after. The scent of moist ground fills her nostrils and wild flowers bow before her as she passes them. The weight of the dew causes their heads to bob. She has never seen so many different flowers in one place. All of them are on the verge of reproducing. She decides she will pick some to offer to the river. She picks numerous flowers and sets them on top of her bundle of red. She starts up the path again. The wind pushes a cool breeze against her tight skin but sweat patches still form underneath her arms. She uses her free hand to wipe the sweat from her forehead, just as the path is abruptly stopped by a river. The river.


The dark clouds uncover the moon, as she sets the bundle against the lone tree that points travelers to the only way to cross the river: four large rocks, jutting out against the current. The moon leaves an eerie shine upon the ground as she sits herself down next to the tree. Leaning her tired back against its itchy bark, she takes off her worn sandals. Her tired feet are covered in dirt and blood. Blisters have formed and have popped. Her toenails have been chipped and she is sure cannot walk another step. Her feet are raw. The moon unveils its face completely again and she has a clear view of the water as it rushes past the four rocks The river is in a hurry this time of year and is much hungrier than normal, that’s why there is such a spike in pilgrims. She then looks at the other side of the river, where the path is continued but is not worn down. This is because most pilgrims head back home hoping their offerings will bring them better fortunes. She herself has never been on that side of the river. Most find crossing the river is very dangerous and is something that one should do only if he or she has a death wish. She contemplates what could be on the other side. Most likely the same damn thing that’s on this side, only in a different place. She would always be an untouchable no matter where she went. What was the use of even dreaming? She sighs, then takes three deep breaths and picks up her sandals. She stands up and reaches for a free low branch that she can only reach on her tippy toes. The pain is excruciating. On this branch she hangs her worn, tattered sandals next to the others that have been left by the pilgrims before her. She then picks up the bundle covered in dreamy blue that has been waiting for her.


She walks to the edge of the river. A path has been worn down. She slides down the side of the riverbank, and reaches the water. She takes the flowers that she had picked and peels off the petals. She throws them into the river one by one. The river gobbles them up. After the flowers have been offered she points out her foot and steps lightly onto the first stone of red hematite. The stretch to get on the first stone is a considerable one, but she uses all her strength to steady herself. She can feel the water as it squishes in between her tired bloody toes, washing them clean. A shiver runs through her entire fragile body. After her second foot makes it safely to the rock, she edges to the second rock which will bring her to the middle of the river. The rains had been harder this monsoon than they had ever been, so the current was swifter and hungrier than the other times she had been here. She lifts her first foot up cautiously and places it onto the second rock of robin’s egg blue. She firmly uses her quad muscles to anchor her tiny frame down. When she steadies herself she slowly lifts her second leg. She tumbles a little as the river suctions off her foot, but she quickly plants her second foot onto the blue rock. The current has rushed up past her ankles and is now soaking her pale peach dress. She wonders if she would be able to float away with the current if she wasn’t holding her legs taut. After she believes that she will not be eaten by the river, she shifts the bundle to one arm. She uses her free hand to peel away the brilliant red cloth that she was going to save for her marriage. She then peers inside. Something shadowed moves in her arms. Her black eyes search hard as if she is trying to remember everything she is seeing. Then her face, so strong, crumbles. In this moment she looks younger, almost prepubescent as the clouds shadow her face. She allows the stinging tears that she has bottled inside throughout the entire journey flood her cheeks. She is certain that she is seeing heaven for the first time. She ignores the wind as it picks up and blows her hair into her face, soaking up her silent tears. She stares deeply into the bundle of dreamy blue as her tears subside. The gold necklace reflects the eerie moonlight. She kisses the beads. She then pulls the silk fabric back over the squirming shadow and hushes it. She shuffles to the edge of blue rock and bends down. She touches the freezing river with her free hand. She stares at her reflection and sees not only herself, but the others. She smiles at them lovingly. She then shifts the bundle into both hands and lays it softly on top of the hungry current. She takes three more breaths and then lets the current take it away.


She stands still in reverence at Blue Rock, her hands are folded in prayer. She squints intently into the black current until she can no longer see her offering of blue being whipped by the velvet rapids and she can no longer hear the crying that has spurred her pilgrimage in the first place. The river is no longer hungry and gurgles as a thank you to her. She refuses to acknowledge its rugged politeness and hopes that the river will assist the bundle of blue into the next life. Abruptly she stands up, possibly to stop the tears that she feels forming behind her black hurricane eyes. She slowly turns back to look at the sandal tree. She can see hers dangling and she spots other pairs that were hers. The wind picks up again and all the colorful sandals start to sway pleasantly while the moon shines off of them like a decorated tree. She wonders how many more sandals will be hung by next year. Will she be the one hanging them again? The river is not as angry now that it is full, and she stands in the water feeling its fingers tickle her toes for a few moments. She thinks of home, of her mother, her sisters, the other women. She decides she never wants to make this pilgrimage again. She turns back towards the other two rocks, both gleaming black. She takes three breaths and stumbles her way to the other side of the river, hoping that she leaves a well defined trail behind her. She climbs back up the mountain.

Blue Rock, Sandal Tree

The moon sways in the cloud spattered sky. The trees rustle as she passes by as if they know her secrets. They whisper to each other in the silence of the night. They’re pretty sure they have seen her before, making this pilgrimage, but they cannot be entirely sure. Many women make this trek every year, every month, every week. It is hard to keep them all straight. All of them have the same quickened pace, while sneaking glances behind them. Their faces they attempt to cover with their soft muted veils. But this one was different. She didn’t even wear a veil. Also, she was older now. The lines of an old woman had started to trace her face. The gossiping trees lean in to take a closer look. Yes, they are sure they have seen her. In fact they have seen her pass through on this pilgrimage four times. This time though, her face is set—an almost angry look. Her walk is much stronger too. In her brown arms, she cradles a muffled bundle and pushes onward down the long dirt path that has been travelled by many before her, and will be by many after her. The wind pushes a cool breeze against her tight skin but sweat patches still form underneath her arms. She uses her free hand to wipe the sweat from her forehead, just as the path is abruptly stopped by a river.

Dark clouds pass over the moon, as she sets the bundle against the lone tree that points travelers to the only way to cross the river: four large rocks, jutting out against the current. She sits herself down next to the tree. Leaning her tired back against its itchy bark, she takes off her worn sandals. Her tired feet are covered in dirt and blood from all the walking she has done. Her devotion to this pilgrimage is manifested in her pain. The moon reveals its face again and she can watch the water as it rushes past the four rocks. She can also see the other side of the river, where the path is continued. She has never been on that side of the river. She contemplates what could be on the other side. She takes three deep breaths and picks up her sandals. She stands up and reaches for a free branch. On this branch she hangs her worn, tattered sandals next to the others that have been left by the pilgrims before her. She then picks up the bundle that has been waiting for her.

She walks to the edge of the river. A path has been worn down. She points out her foot and steps lightly onto the first stone of red hematite. She can feel the water as it squishes in between her tired bloody toes, washing them clean. A shiver runs through her entire fragile body. After her second foot makes it safely to the rock, she edges to the second rock which will bring her to the middle of the river. The rains had been harder this monsoon than they had ever been, so the current was swifter and hungrier than before. She lifts her first foot up cautiously and places it onto the second rock of robin’s egg blue. She firmly uses her quad muscles to anchor her tiny frame down. When she steadies herself she slowly lifts her second leg. She tumbles a little as the river suctions off her foot, but she quickly plants her second foot onto the blue rock. The current has rushed up past her ankles and is now soaking her dress. She wonders if she would be able to float away with the current if she wasn’t holding her legs taut. After she believes that she is stable, she shifts the bundle to one arm. She uses her free hand to open it and she peers inside. Her black eyes search hard as if she is trying to remember everything she is seeing. Then her face, so strong, crumbles. She looks so young almost prepubescent as the clouds shadow her face. She allows the stinging tears that she has bottled inside flood her cheeks. She ignores the wind as it picks up and blows her hair into her face, soaking up her silent tears. She stares deeply into the bundle as her tears subside. She then covers it back up. She shuffles to the edge of blue rock and bends down. She touches the freezing river with her free hand. She then shifts the bundle into both hands and lays it softly on top of the hungry current. She takes three more breaths and then lets the current take it away.

She stands there at blue rock watching the black current until the bundle and the crying are drowned by the angry babbling of the river that is no longer so hungry. She stands up and turns back to look at the sandal tree. The wind picks up again and the colorful sandals start to sway pleasantly while the moon shines off of them like a Christmas tree. She turns back toward the other two rocks and stumbles her way to the other side of the river.

The Arrival...the Departure

I crawled slowly out of bed. It had taken me numerous hours to unclench my body and slink out of bed. But I did it. I floated down the hallway as quiet as the steam seeping from the bathroom door. It's hot pervasive intrusion into my room was what had woken me up. Its fingers beckoning me to follow. At first I tried to ignore its hasty calls, but then the steam started to lick my face. It covered me until I could not breathe. I had to get up. The yellow light creeping out of the cracks of the bathroom door at the end of the long hall, was accompanied by the dull monotonous buzzing of the fan. Once I finally reached the door, I sat next to it. I waited. I could only hear the fan. I turned the knob and pushed the door open slowly. Then I saw her.

Strands of yellow hazy lights bounce upon her face. The white walls were determined to make her into an opaque ghost. She always wanted to paint them a silvery blue. Her face was almost imperceptible but I know she smiled. Not her beautiful grin that won hearts, but a serene, soft smile I hadn't seen in a long while. Her once pink lips were curved softly. Her midnight black hair wet with the steam pervading the bathroom air clung to her face--framing her heart shaped head. The way she laid upon the floor revealed her slight widow's peak which had made it impossible for her to ever part her hair down the middle. But even without the middle part she looked like Morticia Addams, but prettier. Less death-like. She was at peace. But I had just started a war within myself.

She left me that night as a five-year-old stranger. A wanderer more lost than the Isrealites. I couldn't leave her side. I turned off the water. Turned off the fan. Turned off the light. I laid down next to her slowly cooling body and tucked my head into her arm. The steam quickly left and we were alone as the damp cool air overcame us, as did our separate reveries. Hers more fantastic and fatal than mine. No stars to accompany us, or moon to oversee. Just the black damp bathroom air, that left no traces of either of us.

Mirrors of My Mother (4)

My life was completely shrouded in secrets and unanswered questions. Everything that was me or concerned me was hidden by a veil. My life was just a shadow and I was it's reflection.
My name is Ganesha. I'm almost of age and I was born under the monsoon. My father died in a car accident. My mother committed suicide less than a year later. I've been with my grandfather ever since. Before my mother died, she had cut contact with her father. I have asked my grandfather about this:

"Why did my mom stop talking to you?"
"I'm not sure I'm the one that should tell you."
"Well who is supposed to? She's not around to tell me."
"I guess so...I just don't want to talk about it."
"How is that fair? I want to know! I need to know."
"Sometimes we make mistakes that only the grave can quiet."
"Neither of us is in the grave."
"I'm not going to dredge up the past. Especially one where I have had to forgive myself all these years."
"Well when you get over your guilt, could you tell me?"
"This isn't a guilt you can get over. This isn't a mountain that I'm climbing. It's a galaxy that I'm still discovering and conquering everyday."
"These metaphors you are using are cryptic. What the hell could you've done? She did this to me. To us. If anyone has guilt it should be her."

Only a few people of my mother's past ever contact me. My godfather Daniel sends me stuff every year on my birthday and on Christmas. I've seen him only a handful of times. He is coming to my graduation though. I plan on asking him about my mother since he was her best friend. He'll be flying in from Virginia. I am determined to figure out who Evie was/is. Hopefully Daniel will be able to help me out.

Mirrors of My Mother (3)

One day I finally gathered the courage to confront my origins. I climbed the stairs to the eggshell blue room wherein laid the shadowy ghost of my mother's childhood. Plastic perfect dolls that once smiled too serenely and blushed a perfect pink were meticulously resting in a row on the bed. Their once perfect updo's were now matted together, tangled, and some were shorn in pageboy cuts. A few were missing arms and legs. A once fluffy teddy bear, missing an eye and both his buttons of his overalls, laid kingly in the middle of the ambiguous looking ladies. I sat down on the bed. The springs moaned their years and the entire bed felt the weight of my curiosity. I scanned this haven where my mother held her dreams, hopes, fears. I imagined her as a child sitting on her bed and staring out of her second floor window. The endless ocean of oaks and pines unfurling in front of her. I wondered how many times she thought of this place, this room that held the past that made her. I stood next to her height that was hastily measured against the back of the door. I'm almost a foot taller than the last marking which was taken when she was thirteen. The peeling wall held a few pictures of her slowly aging. She didn't ever change much though. Her pigtails were swapped out for a long thick mane that I would one day pull on as a three year old. On the mirror, stuck in between the frame was a picture of her and another surly girl. I plucked it from the side. Both girls are dressed in jeans and t shirts. Hair long, lips too red, and eyeliner reminiscent of Cleopatra. Yet I could still tell how everyone thought that my mother and I looked exactly the same. Our face structure was the same squarish shape and our black almond eyes always had people guessing what nationality we were and what thoughts we were thinking. We even held the same endless expression of indifference. I quickly turned the picture over. Me with Evie. Senior year. I needed to know this woman who had given me life and then proceeded to shatter it. How had she become who she was? Was I to repeat her perilous past? Could I escape it?

Mirrors of my Mother post 2

I grew up about as calmly and steadily as the summer wind that blew around me. I could mark the hours by how many rows a combine had done, and which way the sunflowers had their heads turned. I graduated with every child that I had gone to kindergarten with, and they all still remembered the tears I cried every day of kindergarten and the way I never answered our teachers and instead opted to stare at my stomach. They remembered and respected my quietness and absolute disdain towards any group setting or function. I guess they had accepted me as a loner, and they left me be. Eventually, even the teachers accepted my inability to answer and they too left me be.

My grandfather raised me. He was about as lonely and quiet as I was, though he had a few farm buddies that he went to coffee with at 5:30 in the morning. But he was always back to drive me to school. I guess he understood my silence as a deep mourning for the losses in my early life. He'd lost too. He'd lost his wife before I was born, and then he'd lost my mom way before she died. I guess the universe had realized we were kindred spirits as well as repetitive relatives.

Eventually though, my emotions got to me. I longed to know my parents. Who they were. Where they went, and why did they leave me? I had long since decided that my mother was to blame. She was the crux on which my life was made. She held the options and with haste she left me to grow up alone amongst cornstalks and cloud shadowed hills. Because I was an orphan, I needed answers. I needed to be able to become right with myself. I searched for answers. I expected them to be tangible delicious things that I had waited a lifetime to taste. But in the end, I was left with more questions--I was left with myself...alone.

My name is Ganesha.

Mirrors of My Mother (1)

As the days swayed darting from future to past, I held a hollowness that I could not fill. I was alone. The world was a quiet place. I was a quiet figure, and the countryside that held me was an even quieter domain. I raced up trees, rolled down hills, chewed on prairie grass. I became a dreamer. But I was still alone.

I should be grateful for the cornfields that I got to swim in, the apple orchard I got to eat from, and the blue skyline that never stopped or was interrupted by anything. Nature held me in its palms. It became my mother.

I longed to forget you. To un remember the the things I saw, the things you did, the things that I became because of you. Yet the harder I tried to release your grip upon me, the more I turned into you. The more I became you.

Your eyes reflect in mine. Their depths and intensity like oceans. Too deep to fathom. Your midnight hair and black-holed eyes are other inheritances. I see them everyday I see myself. I expected more from you. Back then you stood so tall compared to me. You were so strong. You had to be. But I guess like me, you had weaknesses. You were human and there was only so much you could handle. Then you were gone. You were my mother who had once been a god.

Sonnet number One to Baby

The streetlights bounce across the quiet room
White, stark walls gleam a ghastly hue, and you
My dear are growing. Your veins, so small and blue
Will one day course with blood, and I assume
You will have sable curls, and chocolate eyes,
Soft rose-bud lips like Daddy--button nose
like Mommy; cheeks that blush a golden rose
And a slow smile that will give butterflies.

But sadly faults you will also receive:
A fiery temper and a heart too bold,
A longing to NOT do what you are told
And many times will you cause me to grieve.

Yet you will win over my heart, my dear.
You will be worth more than my fearful tears.

Could We Just?

Years have passed since your or I were running through our childhood tears and screams and longings. I suppose the tinkling sounds of laughter and joy that once seemed attainable have lost their approachability, and when we scream words of unnecessary hate towards each other, we forget the dreams and hopefulness that we once had. I guess if I could always view you as a boy whose heart had been broken from the moment he was born, then maybe I could be compassionate, but instead I see a man whose vices create anger and sadness inside me. I guess life does create us. I imagine if we had met as five year olds. Both nervous for our first day of kindergarten. Would you still be the horrendous dick that you are now? Would you call me a whore and tell me that I was fat? Would I scream at you and tell you how selfish and controlling you were? Would I be angry that you were trying to manipulate me into doing what you want? Probably not. If we could see each other from the light of five year olds, maybe this divorce wouldn’t be as painful, and maybe we could just play on different sides of the playground. Maybe we could just move on?

Glasses

Moonlight faces peer at each other
Through glasses that always get in the way.
The stars that bounce in the eyes of each
Reflect the dainty beams of day.

Hands so different in size,
Held together by loneliness
Aphrodite has already blessed.

Two heartbeats sound through the night.
Two heartbeats are found through the night.
Breathing becomes minimal
Consciousness becomes optional.

The swirls of the Milky Way
Cannot compare to the twirls of lips
Arms, hands, and hearts as they trip…

Moonlight faces peer at each other
Through foggy glasses and smiling eyes
Words too fragile to be spoken
Will one day be wordlessly realized.