In summer she’d sing through the window fan
to embellish her own vibrato
Chagall 2019
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Category: Poetry
At night, with my eyes inured to the dark, I flash the lights on.
Photons converge to blind me, parade to illuminate my optic nerve,
a flare – I am a film negative, colors inverted until I adapt and am
once again rightly defined,
trillions of sucking pulsating vortices,
the pointillism of the actual corrects itself;
in the time it takes, in that gap, I am postured, the interim, neither.
Chagall 2019
In the reruns
the Towers still stand
each and every
episode
Chagall 2019
I blow on the body of the tiny moth
attached to my screen, watch its body
turn to talc; the night breeze ripples
and lifts the remains away. In my mind
is a soft gray stain.
Chagall 2019
Glorious sun in the sky this morning.
Today is my birthday – thank you, Mom.
Chagall 2019
I open the window and summer rolls in,
but not this summer, instead it’s one
from many years ago
I can smell mom’s cooking on the breeze,
and hear my dad call to circle under
the towering pop-fly he’s thrown
Air brakes of busses long gone to scrap,
the perfumed girls of then, I close
my eyes to journey
Behind my lids
I see light fade
then brighten
I pretend to need
to be home at six
That’s when
supper’s on
Chagall 2019
The only cultures alive today and worth their weight, are my own,
namely: my kimchi, my sourdough, and my heirloom yogurt.
The rest, who cares?
Chagall 2019
near Mrs.: almost getting caught being around married women
Chagall 2019
Found her today at the ocean,
her heart tossed away to the sea,
she’ll no longer love by the river,
she leaves her home by the bay
She said “…there’s no need for other people,”
lately she’d lost all her point of view
about living
Misses the waves
Chagall 2019
My mom, small as she was,
with her bare hands,
could open any jar
Chagall 2019
