kindness is in eyelashes
forgiveness in an orange flash
yellow sunflower dust lines kindness
crevices a bay
with sharp angles and sun
I heard my parents arguing
until the coldest part of the night
held hostage “happily ever” from my mom.
Afterward, they shared no one bed
and erased their anniversary celebrations.
We ate in silence: pan fried liver and sweated onions.
I wasn’t supposed to know
my father brought her into our living room,
past our kitchen with the new microwave,
past all my siblings’ bedrooms.
I wasn’t supposed to know
this affair went on for months–
months my mother grew her voice
among self-slicing thorns and her wrist.
I knew my father paid for us to vacation
in Europe, which he canceled abruptly,
stepping on a sharp rock
and tripping over his marriage.
After the night when my parents fought,
no one could find their way back home.
A Sabrina Orah Mark Style Imitation
When Samantha fell off the roof, the woodsman gathered an iris, the truth, and a yellow moth. He wondered if the junction would occur on Thursday of next week. The queen of a hundred lakes exclaimed with sympathy and licorice. He untangled his boots from Samantha’s white tendrils, feeling a bit embarrassed and underdressed. It was evening. The soldiers would be playing cards by the fire right now.
I heard the woodsman’s toes etching red diamonds on the moth’s left wing. Blood pricked my fingertips. Whether it was one of Samantha’s beaks. Whether the crown bounced off the glass window. I wasn’t sure. Chip after chip…the soldiers upped the ante.
Wiping Honey Off the Bench at Dover Beach: “On Sentimentality”
They say you won’t understand
why I am truly First Person Fabulous. You may see me sitting on the red chair at the outdoor café,
white saucer, white cup to my lips.
They say Ambiguous You are disconnected from the tepid me. Instead of gulping tea and leafing open the paper,
you might witness my sobbing shoulders
and a maddening flicking of tears.
Am I more than an occupied parking stall approached a second too late?
But I know you are intelligent.
You are capable of dual activity: the duality of the connection we share, though not tangible, is “arterial and venous.”
They say poets imbibe sentiment with every sigh,
but if we agree to sit under the canopy of the Banyan tree,
Ambiguous You on your side
of your practical metal bench,
and First Person Fabulous me
placated on the idea of my imaginary one-foot bench,
couldn’t we curate the perfect environment
to generate poems of phô and snakes and pills?
Come then. “Let us be true to one another.”