Round

 If the world is round,

then even as you leave me,

you are coming back.

Fear

You, 

hurt, 

helpless, 

all alone 

and me, 

a thousand miles 

away and 

unable 

to reach you. 

This 

is my greatest 

fear. 

Intruder

 A cicada flew in, 

through the door 

I opened 

to wave goodbye 

to you, 

bouncing 

off of walls and 

staircase spindles. 

He disappeared, 

my darling 

(I assume it was 

a he, 

only something 

male 

could be 

so forceful 

and so 

unwanted). 

The Last Time They Met (A Found Poem)

 I have always 

been faithful 

to you- 

the experience 

against which 

everything else 

has been measured. 

Proof of my 

constancy: 

all of my poems 

are about you, 

even when 

they appear 

not to be. 

Poetry

 Poetry 

demands 

both sound 

and silence. 

Silence-

not the 

absence 

of sound, 

but the 

meaning 

of sound 

given space 

to resound. 

The First Boy

The first boy 

who ever wet my lips with his own 

held the woman he promised to marry 

as her blood painted the white sand red. 

He buried her in a stranger’s graveyard, 

and returned home, a thousand miles away 

from the ghosts that slept beside him. 

Density

 You are my density, 

thick-headed love, 

stubborn as water is wet. 

Let Freedom Ring

My cousin 

sends me 

letters 

from across 

the world. 

He tells me 

of the weather, 

of training, 

of cold nights 

and uncomfortable tents. 

He is alone 

in a crowd of men 

just like him. 

He will not 

celebrate 

the birth of 

the nation 

he is fighting for- 

he is 

far too busy 

protecting it.  

When the Children are Gone

 We will sleep until the sun paints our eyelids red and drink coffee, black and hot, from fragile cups. 

We will lay in the grass, holding hands and singing songs that our parents sang first, as our skin pinks.

We will cook elaborate dinners and not spill a drop from crystal goblets trimmed with gold. 

We will be alone. So terribly, awfully, wonderfully alone. We will fall in love again. A new beginning at the end.

Waterloo

 This 

is my Waterloo:

you, 

the farmhouse,

I, 

sick and 

so alone,

desperate 

to reach you. 

What screams 

you will hear 

before I surrender;

what blood 

will paint 

your fields.

And yet, 

I cannot retreat, 

cannot find 

a different hill 

to die on. 

This 

is my Waterloo:

you, 

the distant farmhouse. 

Convergence

 Unknowable bliss-

to just live, with no regrets-

heaven, here on earth. 

On My Deathbed

 What secrets 

will we whisper 

with our last breaths? 

What wisdom 

will be held

on tips of silent tongues? 

Unmarked

 My birthmark is fading-

you know the one, 

on the palm of my hand, 

planted at the root of my thumb,

the one you used to kiss.

What does this mean, 

I wonder,

that I am losing even this?

Up... Down

 I painted 

          (Up... down)

your name 

          (Up... down)

across every canvas 

          (Up... down)

I found.

          (Up... down)

You never 

          (Up...

appeared.

                    down)

Kitchen O’Keefe

Today, 

I painted 

your name 

inside my 

kitchen cupboard, 

watched you 

appear 

as quickly 

as I 

summoned you, 

and saw you 

disappear 

twice as fast. 

I covered 

my cabinets 

in your 

syllables, 

and now 

I will 

never eat alone 

again. 

This Pain

 This pain-

blinding, 

stomach aching, 

vision spotting, 

absence of breath. 

This pain- 

dark rooms and

no dinner, 

head buried, 

no end in sight. 

This pain-

so much felt 

in the body, 

as if the heart cannot 

survive the loss.

Blue Valentine

there is a world-

across the street,

down the hall,

perhaps

even

hidden behind 

the curtain of your eyelids-

where I have never 

stopped loving you

my darling:

where you have never

stopped loving me.

Addicted

 Psychologists have proven:

you can be addicted to a person. 

(Did I say “you”? I meant me.)

The withdrawal has passed,

I have long since stopped my shaking,

but like every alcoholic knows,

I am only one day away from relapse. 

The taste of you on my lips cannot be

forever postponed.

It is inevitable, this craving,

I do not expect to ever be free of it. 

Enough

 It’s the lie we all believed:

if we are good enough,

brave enough,

tall enough, 

smart enough, 

funny enough, 

sweet enough, 

enough 

enough 

enough 

enough

.....we will earn the love we want. 

But darling,

don’t you know?

I could never have loved you enough-

you were an ocean, 

and I 

was only a 

sieve.

Sartre

Sartre taught us:

absence can haunt a place. 

You have been, 

and remain, 

not here. 

You 

not being here 

fills up 

all the space 

in the room, 

in my heart, 

and all of time. 

Blackheads

 Today, 

the child 

that opened 

my womb, 

the only one 

that was born 

a stranger 

to you, 

obediently lifted 

her chin, 

and let me purge 

her skin of 

imperfections. 

This remains, 

the quest 

for clarity, 

to find 

no blemish 

in any extension 

of myself. 

She understood, 

as you 

once did, 

that it was 

love 

that made me 

reach for 

her face, 

that the sting 

would be short 

and the soothing 

immediate. 

Entanglement

Einstein taught 

that entanglement 

leads to quantum 

nonlocality.

If two quantum systems meet, 

he said, 

and then separate, 

even across a distance 

of thousands of lightyears, 

it becomes 

impossible 

to measure one system-

its position, 

momentum, 

polarity- 

without instantly 

steering the other 

into a corresponding state.

Put simply, 

when two 

particles 

are allowed to interact, 

they influence each other’s 

basic properties. 

Even after the particles 

are separated, 

a change 

to one results 

in a corresponding change 

to the other 

at the exact same time. 

No matter the distance, 

the particles 

are intimately connected 

in a way that has yet 

to be fully explained.

Maybe this, too, is love:

to be marked 

so completely 

by a single 

connection.

If this is so, 

I am resigned-

I will never be free 

of you.

The morning after

 The morning after 

the sacred halls 

of our democracy 

were desecrated, 

I sat 

at the breakfast table 

and poured frosting 

over pancakes, 

smothered French toast 

in berries 

and butter, 

salted crisp hashbrowns 

and fluffy omelets. 

The coffee was hot 

and sweet 

and I ate 

as though it was 

the end of 

the world. 

It wasn’t-

it was only 

the beginning.