Closed eyes

The thing about not being beautiful is that

no one bends over backwards to impress you
you walk the streets flockless, sans gaggle of drooling sycophants,
passing through life unseen, unnoticed
you see people as they really are
and you must embrace them for their true, crappy selves
lest you dare attempt to summon the strength to tread life's thorny path alone.

The thing about not being beautiful is that

when someone tells you that you are, you don't know whether
you are being manipulated
he has crazily deluded himself into looking past your crooked teeth
a little of both (?)

And find beauty as you may within, outside yourself
the doubt may never be enough to convince you that the only meaning of waking up
and shutting down is
surviving the rigmarole until
the final sleep.

what's in the cards?

Sometimes I breathe easier in Guatemala. Despite the exhaust fumes, the pollution, the sound waves that jar you so much that they might be doing something to your lungs, too, I breathe easier.

I've been having trouble imagining life in the US upon my return. Quiet. Controlled. Infrastructure, punctuality, indoor plumbing. Why have I been in my element for the last three months, where life is so inconvenient in so many ways?

What is it that I leave behind in the US?

What is it that I find in Guatemala?

I don't know. Maybe it's not actually worth thinking about.

I gave away my first deck of tarot cards, now over a decade old. I don't need to read anymore to know what's coming. I don't want to predict the future anymore; I want to write it. And if I check my horoscope, it's only to delight in how dreadfully wrong it is.

Are they our hands?

Anecdotes are worth more than statistics.
A large hot chocolate with almond milk
snakes its way through my small intestines.
The silver-coated canvas stares at me
black outlines of fingers reaching for each other
I painted them.
the colors fermenting in the palette
are still wet
invite me to paint my future

Whole

I am a lone empress
a tall oak
whose roots are connected to the burning core of the earth
seething with enough energy
to crumble the strongest human-made foundation.

Cut down my branches
burn them
strip off my leaves
chill me with a perpetual winter

I will grow back.
Standing on the shoulders of Ceres, Lakshmi, the Virgin Mary,
I will offer you shade,
delicious shade,
in the heat of the summer
even as you destroy me.

Interrupted

The knot has tied itself in my chest
into matted barbed wires that keep me wired

I need no caffeine
because frustration keeps me awake

all I wanted was to craft a love letter
and life gave me no time to breathe
no time to punctuate
no time to pour out my soul and myself in words, words, words

how I long for someone to read them
and to love me for them

in trying to unravel the knot
inadvertently it tightens

I try not to rustle the covers
as I try to snatch a hyphen or a colon
to break up these endless run-on sentences

there are no periods

there are no pauses
so I will struggle to breathe and sing through each phrase until I am red in the face
and then blue

that I could plunge into an underwater refuge and evolve gills
or not
and float dead to the surface

55

You hold out your cell phone, showing me a picture of your motorcycle. It's blue--my favorite color. At first I don't recognize the woman sitting on the bike, grinning at the camera. You've lost about 30 pounds since then. And you've died your hair red--one last time before it starts to fall out.

I tell you that I love your nail polish--teal with that crackle layer on top that I used back in high school. You make it look classy, even in that faded blue hospital gown. You tell me how badly you want to go to the makeup class they're teaching for oncology patients on Monday. I tell you that I hope you feel better soon so that you can go. I really, really hope you can make it.

I say goodbye, and promise to come back soon.

Later, I look at your CT, a mug shot of the cancer growing in your belly. Hidden inside, it managed to move to your liver and lungs before anyone knew it was there. I feel my throat close a little, that heaviness in my chest. I know that we are reaching the end, that there is little more we can offer you. I want to see you on that motorcycle again, your red hair blowing and those teal crackled nails clutching the handlebars, somehow outrunning the cancer.

You're 55. You're so young. It's not fair.

Bricolage

The pain of being used and discarded
Every drop of nectar wrung from my body
lapped up greedily
like magnetic ambrosia
until nothing but a pile of bones remained.
My abandoned skeleton
has now the most insipid of sweetnesses left to offer

My parents' hair has lost its color, not its curl,
but who were all the crows
that perched at the corners of their eyes
and etched the wrinkles into their faces?
What were the sweets and the genes
and the memories
that make their wounds
unable to heal?

An egalitarian whim:
that I were a person
before this gendered body!
whose purity is assessed by penetration
whose virtue is found in the the one at her side
whose potential is realized when the empty space within
forms another gendered body.

Tortuous torrents of fear flow underneath
For there is no operation for cataracts
of the third eye.
What is written
I no longer know

Their shrinking spines,
the vapid sugar of my veins,
my hollow womb, clotting like a hardened heart,
all fill me with unease
my clouded intuition cannot dispel.