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.