Ignoring the cool strummer,
tickle the foamy ridge
until the sun bleeds into water
-like the first days.

Don’t hesitate to open your eyes
during heavy breeding-
it’s the nature of the beak
to want to peer inside a fish
for all the answers of the ocean.

Inside… love, little chicks, love,
like the sandy floor that moves beneath,
like the spotted flickers of night
like home
like a summer song
like a full belly
like bodies’ feathered rest.

Come closer to the edge,
where wandering squawks
sound like an aural manna.

It’s Monday,
I’m sore with misuse
my limbs strangely light,
a fuzzy memory
of time bending
not ending
and his head resting
on my shoulder,
a branding
and a reminder
of a life lived fully
and without hesitation.

Burning beneath a darkening lash line
with unflagging pretense of safety;
the heart recoils in the open
like squinting in light
after leaving the movie theatre.
Continuing to lie about the pain
is easier and more horrifying with time.
When she says it’s fine, it’s probably not.

I’ve been eating golden apples for weeks
and I’m still a Mediterranean shadow
lingering in Trieste
almost a hundred years ago.

Trying hard not to moan
his name out loud- the reminder
not pleasant but passion
overrides taboos.

The mangled cat told me
not to pay attention
to the bird admiring his reflection
in gutter water.

Without concern for place,
it’s easy to slip
into one skin after another,
leaving an ecstatic husk.

Surely, these things add up
to make a woman rather than ghost,
with all her quiet needs,
however invisible.

A whole world at my fingertips
and all I can think to write
is how I love the dance
of your words on my tongue,
the play of light
between your fingers and my skin,
the sweet laughter
that keeps me from darker places.