Eating Poetry · Thoughts

A Love Letter to Midnight

I write to midnight
To ghosts, trying to stay sober
To soldiers with tattooed arms
To the architect of my dreams
To supernovas and black holes
To burning bridges
To jazz
To the rain

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Personal · Thoughts

Letters from Florida

Writer, I was in love with your expressive hands. I’ve curled up and slept peacefully in the curves of your beautiful o’s and a’s.  Soared freely in the space in-between your lines. Touched the wet ink that stained my soul. After you left, I tried to write my own stories instead of living yours. And still, as I wearily sit behind my desk after a long day of work, I can’t help but cut my fingers on the painfully sharp edges of your silent dashes.

Vignettes Baby

The Secret Digits of Pi

When the speckled meteors came, you said they were God’s marbles, and that He had lost them. So we fled the city, running with the mob of hungry, barefooted students who had spray-painted the White House black.  We went back to The Hague, my birthplace, sailing the canals, which had been poisoned with mercury. One night, as the crumbling walls of our house violently shook, I told you that the lights in Paris had gone out forever. You covered my lips with trembling fingers, and told me that you didn’t want to hear it. And as I held you close, I read the secret digits of pi in your spinning eyes and knew that the world we had lost would haunt us with undying glory.

Eating Poetry

Sea Foam and Fireflies

brother, we’re going home
in calm waters we silently cruise
and if our conditions grow dire
then I’ll join a midnight choir
and sing you a sister’s blues—

brother, we’re going home
in rough waters we sail our ark
and if these storms never tire
then I’ll light a midnight fire
and guide you through the dark—

brother, we float like sea foam
in dead waters we quietly dream
and if you’re in too deep
then I’ll let you sleep
and sing you a sister’s requiem—

Eating Poetry

Signs on a Hand Grenade

her stretch marks are signs
on a hand grenade
perhaps her father used to be
a soldier who swore and drank
and perhaps these zigzagging lines
are simply traces of his military tank

she moves, whispering a silent ‘no’
as I bow down to drink her sweat
seeping into her war stripes

her stretch marks are grooves
on a hand grenade
I could trace them drunk
and stumbling through a dark room