balasana (child’s pose)

she carries it in her hips:

an emotion

a longing the length unfurled
of the lined rings in sequoias

she carries it
with his intent
without permission)
in between

and through her lovers,
she carries it further
(sometimes her lover,
she carries it, too)
and resists that it sag down
or topple out

she notices it
when walking,
stubborn and obese
by the way others call out
and stalk or gaze
and fade away

sometimes she drags it
the largest widening
making room for
another in pain

she carries it
in a baby’s cry,
feels it against
her babe’s thighs

she carries it
whether she is called
mom or jane or
any self-given name

and it only rests
knees to chest
in the privacy
of the couch corner
or the bathroom sink

it funnels
to the crease of the paused book
when she’s done
being a woman for the day

when she can release
shrinking slender into
the not-so-heavy
flanks of a girl

even alone,
what a woman carries
is not only hers

but of everyone she loved
and looked at
that day, that year
in all times, both
in fruitful deliverings
and arrivals unheard


words of flight (free verse)

could you believe that i could fly?
well, neither could i
neither would i ever believe

until my feet unknew the ground
with the sound of a rocket leaving earth
and a trajectory to be gone-for-good

to fly, it felt like

discovering, in your very own room,
a door
you had never noticed before,
and everything behind it
was the substance dreams are made of:

pillow fluff dotting the sky like
city lights coercing curtains into nudity

the silence in the middle of a forest
where you never hear the old trunks fall

where your hands are always reaching further
for a feel of something real, a texture unwritten or unturned:

finding turquoise eggs in miniature baskets made by tiny feathered people
who only live for your ear’s delightment;

breathing in ice refracted first by eyes wide open
and crying all states of matter in plasma tears;

it was being of the sea with a whale’s tale
of crossing the seven oceans in a heart’s beat;

it’s knowing of these places
you’ve never been

and remembering walks
you’ve never taken

and seeing faces
you’ve never seen

but you could paint them all with
a magic motion of your hands
in the space in front of a friend’s face.

and it was singing,
always singing
and never asking what song could be good for

but with it, you can profess yourself
to your favorite thinking spot,
forgotten by everyone but the crows

or your empty room when no one is home

and you can finally say your name aloud
look at your face in a dirty mirror
wonder who the hell that person is
marvel at the way she says words
how they float away like always-dissipating smoke
and simply appreciate the mystery
of her being

threefold crazy

“there’s nothing wrong with love,”
she said,
with the tiger in her eye,
a resilient stone Medusa had summoned
from her breath

i’m tired of burning bridges,
it’s a crime, she thought.
it leaves no trail for travelers to take,
no way across the water,
to the grassier, greener side

her third eye’s been shut down,
she knows not how night rotates to day
and everything turns new again,
one glance she sees the world as through
a magnifying glass, sympathizing
with the worms

and the next she’s being eaten alive
in the same dirt
by stomach acid and fear

“how to do in a world like this!” and
the panic sets in
that where she walks or which bear’s bed
she stumbles sleep upon is a story
in which she has no say,
not even a madlib or a couplet

it’s the curiosity that got me
and again, she thinks of her good friend Alice
and she’d seen some shit,
watercolored rhinos as pets
and every mouth glued in a felt-fabric smile
crisp and white as a new moon
— and space was as much myth as dinosaurs,
the sky, a giant’s wallpapered decoration of
our stagnant wishes

meanwhile, fate put her on a biplane
and flew her thoughts around the world
one, then two times, then thrice

meanwhile, she sat in a rotting armchair
in a ruined cottage in the woods
with specks of triangled sun intruding
mid-morning and she realizes all at once
that she hasn’t moved an inch
in years

your biggest fan

there’s no book of rules
for Love, babe

that say I have to be your biggest fan, though
you don’t have to hear my cry to know that I am.
you shouldn’t ever have to ask to hold my hand.
and when they wonder, is that my boy?
I answer: “no, that’s my man.”

I don’t want flowers or pearls, babe.
I don’t even need my toes to curl.
we can sit cross-legged in an empty room,
and I’d believe it if you’d say here
contains all the wisdom of the world.

I don’t want to know your past, babe —
and I’m not begging for the future.
but I hope when night falls,
it will be me who shares your pillow,
your one and only,
the girl who made you more than sure.