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.

Bloom

When Flora feels like they're falling in love: peonies, roses,
clematis lacing fingers through the trellis,
she doesn't leave the garden.

Barefoot amongst bedding plants, amongst annuals,
she blossoms, lets lilies sprout
from her fingertips, honeysuckle climbing the hem
of her jeans, over her ankles, around her knees.

As the daffodils and tulips bloom, Flora
thrives, the sun warming her back, his hands
warm on top of hers. She lets him practice planting sweet peas,
place lilacs in her hair, kisses on her cheeks.

A Son Wonders About His Mother

Hidden beneath Nigella Watson,

Jill Churchill, Gardening A-Z, books

Dad will never touch, my mother

hides her scrapbook. Strange to see

earlobes, the tips of fingers, pieces of photos

she can't bring herself to throw

away. She pastes pelvises

on paper, next to noses, candids

of collarbones, none of them complete. Fragments

of a man I can't picture. There are shots of ankles,

cheek bones, salt and pepper hair too thin

to be my father's. Downtown, I inspect

passerbys, check the curved knuckles

that grip the railings on bus number six, the shape of mouths

ogling the Chinese food buffet at Foo Hong's. Try to match

them to the snapshots, comply a list of men

who could be the one my mother keeps

tucked away under under Watson, Churchill, roses, ferns.

Love

Press your thumb

against the cut, watch it ease the flow

before you lick it clean.

The taste of blood.

Sit on the pavement

so that your back is resting against the bumper,

let the vibration of the speakers rock you to sleep.

Andrews Beetle.

Trace his mouth with your fingers,

get caught on rough, dry skin

peel back dead flesh, look for something smooth.

Chapped lips.

Feel the scrape of cloth

over raw, peeling skin.

Run your fingers across the blisters.

Burnt.

Stick it inside the folds of your tongue,

taste the candy coating melt

as it gets smaller and smaller inside your mouth.

Cinnamon hearts.

Northern California

The apricot sky seems full of wings,
orchards draped copiously in fruit.
Juice dripping from our tongues,
our hands lost in the sagging branches.

Orchards draped copiously in fruit,
watch them swell in the California sun
our hands lost in the sagging branches
anything to quench our thirst.

Watch them swell in the California sun
we are bathing in the sweet fruit,
anything to quench our thirst,
the taste of June, yellow-billed magpies and heat.

We are bathing in the sweet fruit,
soaking into parched soil,
the taste of June, yellow-billed magpies and heat,
our fingertips, the edges of our lips.

Soaking into parched soil,
juice dripping from our tongues,
our fingertips, the edges of our lips,
the apricot sky seems full of wings.



The apricot sky seems full of wings - Quoted from Barbara Colebook Peace's poem "Songs of Mary: How Could I Know?"