Ending

Some smiles are too much to bear in color

Her upturned lips over a griddle of roasting tomatoes
and peppers and the sound of running water
and slurring shouting Christmas
drunks and the smell, the texture of
dust and smoke and sticky children

But her eyes
her eyes are euphemisms
"a coconut dropped on my head"
swelling where a human hand struck
"he's working far away"
a no-show on a holiday with plump spherical supermarket grapes
for another woman
"everything's in God's hands"
the spirits of the young dead
hover unintentionally
cruelly

Only those who have wept bitterly over injustice
recognize the dull before the sparkle

I made her smile black and white to help everyone see

"She looks so happy!" you told me,
and I fell out of love with you

five of swords reversed

The hopeless romantic in you died
a strange death: the power went out
and in the dark she rummaged
through the cabinet under the sink--
clasping an old sponge, a container
of silver polish, a rubber glove, and finally,
the waxy frame of a candle saved for
those rare, dark occasions.

The hopeless romantic bumped her head
as she rose from hands and knees
and muttering disgruntled nothings
under her breath, she struck a match,
cautiously inched up the stairs,
fell asleep,
and vanished.

Sometimes you thought you saw her ghost
floating around the fireplace, hovering
behind those old brown curtains, but anytime
she caught your eye, you'd blink her away.

You learned not to blink, but she
learned to disappear.

You made it through anger, denial,
you bargained, you cast off the fog of
depression and you accepted
she was gone

and then she came back.
And, bumpy head intact, she tried to seduce you,
and you were not so sure you wanted her
anymore.

Ya lo perdí

A list of things you couldn't recall:
the name of the first love song (an ironic canary in the mine)
a string of prepositions at the end of a sentence
(that still makes you laugh)

The power to be a muse lies dormant

How far one must dig
through piles of crumpled up paper
wadded up yellow sheets lined with pink and blue
some within, some near misses from a gray trashcan
that tripped you over in a physics classroom

and digital reminders of our embarrassing pasts
those images
those letters
those mp3s
you thought you deleted

Latent inspiration is an engram

And a trip down memory lane
that once filled you with shame
makes you whole again

Daydreams

That blue summer dream whispers itself in your ear

She leaves her thoughts hanging on your lower lip
and it is so weighed down that you look perpetually paused
as if searching for words

That blue summer dream whispers itself in your ear
and you wonder if that's what's tickling you or if
it's only your imagination reveling in its own cruelty

The smoggy sunset, the witty words like ping pong balls
bouncing back and forth between practiced hands
that never tire of their paddles.
Somehow, because your eyes have locked,
because your weary bodies find respite from
the isolating worlds that constantly threaten to engulf you
in each other's arms,
because your selective memories pretend
terrible things have not happened,
terrible things that you yourself have carved in stone
with chisels and mallets on the hearts of the innocent,
you two still find love
and overlooking the squalor, the misery, the crime, the poverty
etched into the city streets,
you two find the world perfect
in an ironic and nauseating way.

That blue summer dream whispers herself in your ear
and rests her finger in the small of your back where only lovers
dare to go
and your eyes dilate
and her lips graze your earlobe
and you tremble wishing
you didn't want more

only when she slips away
does the salt stir the intelligence of the raw bleeding wounds
she has left everywhere
she touched you

ladles and laundries and tiffs

freshly tumbled, warm, crinkled
lay them out, slip them in
a flat rush of fabric softener between us
an unreturned hug, a flash in the eye,
white plastic hangers in hand,
open closet doors and fan on
lights waiting to be snapped off
no eye contact for the former doe
in the headlights who
collided and limped away.

Today gets
swept under the rug
dampened by tears shed through dehydrated ducts
Tomorrow gets
swept under the rug
wrinkled like crows feet under the friction
of heels and flats and muddy hiking boots
The day after gets
dusty, gritty, and the

tin
crystal
china
silver
pearl
ruby
gold

gets dusty, gritty, with the patina of
too much to be swept

Primero Dios

Crumpled scrubs rings the doorbell with on-the-way-home pie in hand
straight from work in the summer heat, baby Einstein hair
dishevels beads of sweaty forehead.
Voices inside crowd out the familiar ding-dong and
it's unlocked anyway. Crumpled scrubs opens the screen door slowly,
deliberately, edges her way around sticky wood,
at once graceful and awkward, pie in hand,
holds her breath at the sight of cardboard boxes
near the stairs, the sheen of clear packing tape, a mirror for
incandescent bulbs and the rotating shadows of a ceiling fan.
These faces are foreign and her inner wallflower blooms.
T-shirt and gym shorts is out back with a cold IPA,
laughing and entertaining people from this place he won't miss.
Buyers hauling away the couches tomorrow morning,
cleaning crew scheduled for two, books and clothes shipped,
and a flight the day after
to the new place. New dawns, new dusks, new dreams.
His eyes' magnets drawn to a silhouette at the kitchen counter,
she steps outside straight-from-work hungry with a piece of pie in hand,
draws a fork to her mouth, pie on lips,
catches sight of t-shirt and gym shorts catching sight of her.
For a darting daring second their eyes lock and they feel
what could have been
crumble away

Mirage

Nervous. Hair between lips, nails between teeth.

Those first steps are tentative. We are guarded
like animals, circling in our cages, assessing
prey and predators, friends and foes, and over
months of sharing the waterhole and baring our
stripes and spots, we decide we are both cats.

They walk out of your life more quickly than they walk in.

We've rehearsed. The hunts, the dreams, the confinement,
but there's nothing like the real thing.
Breathing against ribs heavy with sadness.
Tending to thorny paws on my own.
It's not the end, but it's not the beginning,
and the ripples have dissipated
and the water is still here at home.