Mourning

She hates falling asleep

alone. Goes to the opera

after her husband died,

head lolling gently on the shoulder

of the man sitting to her right, loses

herself in the swell of the arias but no one notices.

Near the end, his breath, rough, drowned

out by the reverberating

soprano, plush maroon seats, sleep.

They sat through Swan Lake, The Prodigal

Son, wrapped in the safety of voices, the hum

of people whispering, no one

probing for answers.

But there was no music

when he died, an audience of nurses, doctors,

never having heard Michael Tippett, cappella,

a full orchestra, or Luciano Berio.

When they bury him, during the third

showing of Benjamin Britten's Death

in Venice, she clothes herself in black,

mourns in her fanciest dress, rouge, pearls,

seated in the balcony, closes her eyes

dreams of dancing again.

Patience

I want to make love

to a corpse, moan

in the silence of the morgue

where everything is quiet, except

for the sound of my fingers

curled around yours.

We`ll lie hand in hand

on steel guerneys, talk

about the stars, how the overhead lights

shimmer like Orion in October.

You won`t move,

even when I kiss the cold

skin beneath your ear.

I`ll tell you love is patient

wait
for your lips to form

the words I want to hear.

Astronomy

When his class studies

Chapter Four: Space, Jason wants

to eat stars for breakfast, refuses eggs, bacon,

toast. Too much milk

spills onto the plastic table cloth, the birth

of the milky way around the bottom

of his bowl.

He can't stop talking, proud

that he knows the Northern Lights,

the constellations, his spoon

disapearing sporadically into the black hole

of his mouth.

Sugar, the color of dreams, sticks

to the corners of his lips, a constellation

of crumbs, the little dipper

already late for school, wipes

his mouth over Orion's belt,

leaves a nebula streaking across

his clean shirt.

Leucosia

I want to see you naked,

moonlight spilling over

your shoulders, above your breasts.

The skin behind your knees, pale

enough to ebb into the sand, waves

that fan out your hair, a ring of red fire

floating in the water.

When the sun rises, pink and gold,

over Naples, touch the rock face to our backs,

let it rub me raw, ridged

stone between my shoulders, drift

close enough to feel your chest

rise and fall, warm breath in the water.

We'll swim deeper, the ocean mounting

beneath our elbows, salt, cruel against our lips.

Enchant me with your voice, the sound of the sea,

fair legs stretched into the darkness below.

I will kiss your forehead, earlobes,

lips, taste the ocean, seaweed, brackish

on your tongue. Let your singing

slice me open, throw me against the cliffs,
blood pooling in the sunrise.

Show the World

You are a blank book, and I am a poet, filling you with something

beautiful. Coax you with Rumi, Neruda, Lane. Te amo sin saber

como, o cuando, o de donde. I love you without knowing how, or

when, or from where. Cover you in poetry until it drips from your

earlobes, soaks your lips. Casanova. Patois. Worldly. I'll make you

believe in love. Taste it on your tongue, feel its smooth edges rub

against your chest. Make love to me. Forget prose. Sonnets, elegies,

odes will roll off our bodies, lose themselves in cotton sheets.

Inaudible as dreams. Together we will show the world where poetry

is made.

Leftover Wontons

Chinatown is guarded by lions

that flank the street on either side. Beyond them,

you pull me through the mass

of Chinese voices, around the boxes of fruits

and vegetables that spill onto the sidewalk,

their names as foreign as they taste:

Sui Choy. Litchi. Durrians.

It's loud, noisy, hips and elbows

that knock against me as I cling tighter

to your fingers. We are surrounded by crimson lanterns, cherry

writing, burgundy silk fans, a jumble of bodies, red

heat, pressing down on us from all sides.

But once we maneuver

through the swarm, into the calm of Don Mees

we drink green tea from fragile cups, their handles

like elegant Chinese characters, creeping away

from the parchment. I'm not sure I like the taste

but I match you sip for sip, feel its bitter heat

burn the back of my throat, as waiters
bow their heads, unfold scarlet napkins in our laps.

That night, after we have feasted on leftover wontons,

spring rolls, sesame balls, I will fall

into bed, dream of lions perched high

above the crowd, gold heads watching over

everything red, pomegranates,

you.

After the Game

I sit on your bed, wait

while you shower off, admire

the gleam of baseball trophies,

T-ball, little league, softball,

raise their arms and wave stately, dedicated

and piles of unfolded laundry, spontaneous,

passionate explosions from the hamper.

A closet full of running shoes,

hesitant in the dark,

and baseball bats, rise stiffly against the wall,

ready to hit their next home run.

The squeak of your bed springs under my thighs, echo

the cheer of a full stadium and popcorn and waving foam hands,

and the posters of Derek Jeter, alluring behind his helmet

and the stereo, pulsing, rhythmic,

blood below the skin.

And the box of condoms, hidden

behind your comic book collection;

ribbed, lubricated, flavored.

Tell me you love me.

L'Opera

We met at the Paris Opera House when you came out from back stage, tired of demi-plies and battement tendus. You threw your arm into the street, waving, "S'il vous plait! S'il vous plait!" Your bun was coming undone and I could see the muscles in your calves defined by your leggings. I wanted to whisper s'il vous plait in your ear, hear you moan in mine. It was raining and you'd forgotten your s'il vous plait in the dressing room but I was willing to share. We stood there, on the Place de l'Opera, close enough that I could smell you, wanted to see if you tasted any different. When I kissed you, your lips were soft and warm, left traces of pink s'il vous plait on my jaw. When I asked you to come home with me, you nodded, "S'il vous plait." So I wrapped you in my jacket, watched your leggings disappear into thick wool and silk lining. We made s'il vous plait while the rain pounded down and the Eiffel tower flashed brighter. You left the next morning. I was sleeping, dreaming maybe. You pulled on your leggings, flagged down a cab in the rain.

What Mother Forgot to Tell Me

Never go anywhere empty

handed, and never, ever

without duct tape.

Marry for love

the first time but always look

for a man who thinks he's right

but listens to you anyway.

Always carry pepper spray.

Sometimes the grass really is greener

on the other side. Especially if you live

next to neighbours who ignore

the watering restrictions.

If you can't say anything nice,

don't say anything at all and don't put it in

writing unless you want there to be evidence

later.

Honesty is your best policy

but sometimes white lies can help.

Be careful what you wish for.

A private detective is your friend.

That's what they're paid for.

Buy local.

Unless it's cheaper at Walmart.

Stay low and keep your head down.

Marriage

Because it's the one his mother sold

at the garage sale. You ate popcorn

on Dad's lap as he watched

the game, wolfed back half

the cherry cake. Because she used to be

so thin.

It was where he would live

when space travel was perfected,

the one his brother bought

with the souped-up engine. Because

he's better at lying

than telling the truth.

You hid in the closet

where your mother hung

her old dresses, the one's she wore

before she was pregnant. Smelt like her

sweet perfume and dark chocolate.

Because it has a definition

for everything. Because it's easier to climb up

than down.

Monkey Bars

The first time I smoked

I imagined elementary school, monkey bars

and how it felt to be suspended

over pavement, the metallic smell

on my palms, how the wind

made my eyes water.

Swung back and forth, gaining

momentum, anticipation, weightless as I flew

through the air, that incredible feeling

before I hit the ground.

Devotion

It is nearing dawn and the Louvre is silent

except for the sound of the guard's

footsteps that echo down the empty halls. In the wave of stillness,

I will kiss you. Loose myself in your smile, count the angels

soaring in arcs above your head. And as the sun rises, Mona,

I will strip you of your dowdy clothes, paint you in reds

and golds, the brilliance of the dawn.

You will whisper your secrets in my ear, tell me

how you dream of gardens, the first frost of winter, amour.

I will understand why your horizons are uneven, why you sit

so still behind sheets of glass.

Too soon you will be lost in the crowds, the sound of voices calling

your name, expecting you to answer. Our lips will part
and you will grow distant but I know that come tomorrow,

Mona, we will find each other

in the darkness.

The Earth

Pablo, he is not the earth

and our dreams don't join

at the top and bottom, through red roots

and branches blown together

in the wind.

I have slept beside him all night long, given to him

my hands, my mouth, let him travel

across pale hills, down my legs,

between my breasts while the dark

earth spins.

But Pablo, in the light

of the morning, I no longer believe

that neither night nor sleep

can separate us,

know that despite the warmth

of his arms gathered around

my waist, winter

is not gone.

He is dark clay, heavy

between my toes. I sink slowly, stumble

as he stretches, grows, expands

towards the horizon, the frozen sky.

And when I lean towards his lips

it is not to kiss the earth, the sky, the stars. Our bodies

they are not tied. I know that when the wind passes

it will take me away.

1001 Nights

As we sit beneath Cepheus and Cassiopeia, I think

of Arabian nights, smoke curling

out from between our lips like stories

told by Scheherezade to soothe the Sultan.

In the center of the circle your hookah pipe

looks out of place in it's grandeur, coiled hoses,

cobras that sway to the music, the hum

of conversation. Beneath the aroma of apple tobacco

is the scent of of burning cedar, lawn clippings, the ocean.

It smells like the west coast, not Saudi Arabia,

but when I close my eyes, the heat

from our fire feels like a warm breeze rolling in

off the desert and our mouths,

softer, more rounded, let loose a stream

of Arabic.

In the darkness, I imagine your toque is a tagiyah and you

are the Sultan, sitting straight and proud beside me, lean in

a little closer, whisper in your ear.

Let me wrap my words around you.

Tea for Two

She offers to make you tea,
Orange Pekoe, licks honey from her fingers.

You can taste it when you kiss her,

sweet like summer.

Sweet like summer,

you can taste it when you kiss her,

Orange Pekoe, licks honey from her fingers.

She offers to make you tea.

Wonderboy

"I hate that Crabtree." Allan is fishing in his pocket for cigarettes. Dunhills. He knows how Susan hates them, watches the way she crinkles her nose, looks away every time he lights one.

"Can you believe the way Hanna practically threw herself at him? Disgusting." Susan thinks everything is disgusting: Hanna, Dunhills, the way the seaweed in the inner harbour clings to the dock, thick and wreaking of fish. Allan sighs. Susan glares at him.

"Do you have to do that?" Susan says, narrowing her eyes at him through the haze of cigarette smoke. Allan doesn't know if she's referring to his smoking or his sighing.

"Red at night, sailors' delight. Red in the morning, sailors' warning." The sun is setting over the harbour, dragged down by the weight of the day. Susan used to notice things like the sunset, but lately all she's been interested in is nagging Allan, smears of crimson and gold on the horizon.

"That wasn't a very good movie," declares Susan and Allan can only agree.

Brett

Brett is urban punk, street lights that change

from red to green, his Converse sneakers

disco dance down East Broadway and up

the Lower East Side; the city that never sleeps.

Full lips and stubble, his mouth wraps itself

around politics, philosophy, interesting facts that align themselves

behind rows of perfect teeth

as he kisses the edge of his mug

with hands that fold

and wave, dunk teabags

into boiling water and shimmy

to the sound of the kettle

singing.

He is velvet underground,

yoga at noon, the yellow cluster

of sunflowers that crowd the windowsill

of his apartment.

First Time

Time to try the smash and pry

method. Ram in the blunt end

and yell

"Oh shit!"

Maybe you should have stuck

to tongues.

It is the last and only picture

she let you take, hiding

behind her drape

of hair. Finally

you can see what the world was like

when there was no stop signs,

strip malls or sushi.

Neither of you is very good

but you keep going, push

you and her together.

Mold your fingers

into her skin, watch

as you try to become

one.

Leonard Cohen

Told her he saw me

when I died,

like a goddess,

hair spilling over

When I died

my shoulders, blood,

hair spilling over,

a natural rouge

My shoulders, blood,

cheeks. My hands

a natural rouge,

still warm, pulsating

Cheeks. My hands

pale skin. A broken man

still warm, pulsating

with beautiful lies.

Pale skin. A broken man

like a goddess

with beautiful lies

told her he saw me.

Damp

In London, it's raining.

The city is gray; clouds, buildings, smog,

tourists press themselves into doorways

seek shelter under umbrellas and watch

as the city swells, puddles form

on the streets, the smell of damp pavement.

On the streets, the smell of damp pavement.

In London, it's raining

as the city swells, puddles form.

The city is gray; clouds, buildings, smog,

seek shelter under umbrellas and watch

tourists press themselves into doorways.

Tourists press themselves into doorways

on the streets, the smell of damp pavement,

seek shelter under umbrellas and watch.
In London, it's raining,

the city is gray; clouds, buildings, smog,

as the city swells, puddles form.

As the city swells, puddles form,

tourists press themselves into doorways.

The city is gray; clouds, buildings, smog,

on the streets, the smell of damp pavement.

In London, it's raining,

seek shelter under umbrellas and watch.

Seek shelter under umbrellas and watch

as the city swells, puddles form,

in London, it's raining.

Tourists press themselves into doorways

on the streets, the smell of damp pavement.

The city is gray; clouds, buildings, smog.

The city is gray; clouds, buildings, smog,

seek shelter under umbrellas and watch

on the streets, the smell of damp pavement

as the city swells, puddles form,

Tourists press themselves into doorways.

In London, it's raining.

Hooked

My grandmother, Tutu, has always been proud of the fact that she can make her baby toe do the hula. She sits in the car, waiting for my piano lesson to come to an end, wiggling her toe in endless circles. Her fingers drum on the dashboard as she blows nonsense into an old harmonica, trying to recapture the Hawaiian music her toes dance to best. I come out of my lesson, see her parked across the street, and beeline towards her ancient Honda. A mosquito is making lazy rounds above her head. Tutu sometimes tells me stories about her life in Kauai. She would dance the night away on warm Hawaiian beaches with those American men. This is where Kupuna Kane comes into the story and Tutu gets vague. Changes the subject to how she wanted to become a hula dancer instead. She never dances the hula now; the only dancing she does is with her baby toe, in the front of the car as she waits for me to finish tapping out Hot Cross Buns on the piano. Tutu says the thing she misses most about Hawaii is the hula girls in their pretty palekoki and that she wishes they were the first things she'd seen when the plane landed, rather than bare, hot tarmac. Climbing into the passenger seat, I hum along to the harmonica's foreign sound as Tutu finally swats at the mosquito, misses.

Innocence

I want to shave

your legs, run the blade

over the muscle in your calves.

Together in the tub, nick the flesh

around your ankles, slit your pale skin

just to watch blood pool

at our feet.

Later, when we're dry,

kiss the ridges of your shins, move my lips

around the razor burn, the Band-Aids,

remember the metallic taste

of shaving cream, blood, water

trying to wash it all away.

Funeral

It is the afternoon of your funeral and they are lowering you further and further into the ground, into the gaping mouth of fresh earth. I can picture your face behind the heavy wood of your coffin, grinning in the dark as though it were a game of hide and seek and you'd tucked yourself away where no one would find you. We are a sea of black shoes, dresses, tights, shifting uncomfortably. For once, the skies are clear and it's warm enough not to need a sweater. If you had your way, it would be pouring rain, weather as miserable as the mourners swarming over you, raindrops carving our mascara into dark holes around our eyes. But it is not raining and the grass is lush and green, supple enough to still stand up straight once we have moved on to the temptation of food at your wake. The grass is not dead and dry, trampled by our heavy shoes as you would have wished. I can hear children laughing somewhere in the woods surrounding the cemetery, playing along in your imaginary game. Their laughter sounds out of place in our silence, echoing off the perfect blue sky. My skin is pale but I am too tired of crying to shed more tears, simply stair straight ahead as dirt is shoveled back on top of you. It's not the funeral you would have imagined but you'll be glad to know that my shoes have given me one horrible blister. It hurts.

Moving Day

She could nearly touch them

from her window, feel skin

brush against her palm,

but her fingers always

fell short and when they grew,

her mother packed Stacy,

Kelly, and Barbie with

red lipstick, nylons and

pajamas, toothbrushes,

said it was time to leave.

They moved to a cramped suite

on Fort Street where peaches

and dads were forbidden.

Pat Bay

We hide our hands under the blankets,
take advantage of the dark.
I want to lose myself in your skin,
rest myself on the edges of your lips
while we have the chance, alone in your truck,
pulled to the side of the highway.

Cars zip past on the highway
as you wrap me up in blankets,
apologize for the broken heater in your truck.
Outside everything is dark,
except for the street lights throwing shadows over our lips,
backs, thighs, over the melting of my skin

against yours. Let our skin
forge us into one, right there on the highway,
bones pressing into mine, our lips
searching for heat, sweat, salt, under the blankets.
we feel our way forwards in the dark.
In the safety of your truck,

move cautiously on foreign ground, breath swaying your truck.
Rock it gently from side to side, our skin
making milky waves against the dark.
Pulled to the side of the highway
we shed anything under the blankets,
touch everything with our lips,

explore the world with our lips.
Fingers, earlobes, elbows. In your truck,
under blankets,
skin against skin,
on the highway,
fumbling in the dark.

Everything is easier in the dark,
less pressure for our lips
to preform on the highway
in your old, dusty truck
with nothing but our skin
to hold us together, tied up in blankets.

We swim in the dark of your truck,
let our lips travel over sheer skin.
On the Pat Bay highway, lost in those blankets.