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Dents in the wall, broken plates, and ash caking the furniture is all that remains in her house. There are tiny shards of glass fractured into spiderwebs, strewn across the floor. Maybe a fight, maybe a robbery, maybe nothing at all. But I think there is a drop of blood over by the windowsill, where the panes look too new and too neat. I thought there were limestone tiles by the fireplace, but maybe I was mistaken, and she always had that off-centered wood paneling, scratched and splintered like something had been ripped off. I’m sure he wouldn’t lie to me about where she is. He loves her so much. And he said he wasn’t home when the fight or the robbery or the nothing-at-all happened. He says she’s just away on vacation. But I find it a bit odd that something made this place so messy four days ago, yet the window is spotless, and the tiles are missing, just like my sister. 

A bumpy ride to elementary school and later a trip to a university,
trunk overflowing with new-born dreams and strawberry pink garbage bags.

Weaving our voices with the radio after unintentionally memorizing lyrics to songs
that play a few dozen times.

Eating yakisoba and teriyaki and tearing styrofoam to make 5 plates, loyal customers
until the restaurant’s final days.

Laying on the backseat and conversing with the stars. They never talked back, but the
minivan hummed after my rants.

I’ve meshed my cheek onto the icy window and marveled at the clouds and the
disappearing sun.

It stormed through hail, was our blade in the wind, and welcomed the rain.

It has driven up a mountain’s spiraling roads, by trees enveloped in snow, and
through the California heat.

Reuniting after two decades, my parents finally got to share their favorite locations
with my grandfather and grandmothers. It was one of the only times the minivan flew:
all of our dreams had become a reality.

Our hopes for the future guide the minivan. They race with us as we drive to a new
place they want us to see. When the minivan tires and slows down, they place their
hands on the back of the vehicle and push us forward.

The minivan will age, the ceiling’s fabric will droop and pool: it will become
irreparable. But for now, we laugh with it, thanking the minivan for giving us safe
passage with song.

After Rene Magritte, The Therapist, 1937

Shame is a cloak,
unequivocally masking the unpleasant.
When I peek from under
it is my reflection I see
only, what stands before me is distant.

Like a cold salty shore
and an infinite horizon of vapor
we stand on opposite ends.
separated by a confinement
of my making.

I yearn so deeply
to embrace my reflection,
to ignite like a match stick
vigorously stricken,
to become one again.

We could take flight
to the tune
of the whistling wind,
leaving behind the stiff bars
of self judgement
that I had placed
part of myself in.

inside me is an aching feeling.
An aching feeling of desperately wanting to be accepted
an aching feeling of wanting to be loved by you.

Stepping on eggshells everytime i’m around you
not knowing what i’m going to find today
anger
resentment
sadness
it all comes towards me at once
and pushes me down like a big tidal wave

I never knew why you had so much pain filled inside you
so much pain you have inflicted onto me

latching to me
to feel the ache as deeply as you

so here I am, eager for the day to come
the day I don’t have an aching feeling inside me
the day I won’t feel the need to change every aspect of me for your liking
the day I can dance around freely.

For those of us who live at the center of a man’s world,
words written for us
expressing their desires,
thrown about like a boat in an ocean storm.
If such words could sculpt
they would create erotic pictures,
unrecognizable when faced with realism.

To be a woman in a man’s world,
if breasts could bounce
like that of a man’s eye.
When will the ink from a woman’s hand
be given such courtesy?
Words that roll from her lips
pierce the man like a dagger.
Having tasted the blade,
does it reminisce
of the flowers they so desperately wish to pluck?
You would reject the mirror
with images such as theirs.

after Galina Zhiganova,  A Woman Cuts the Hem of a Kimono so as Not to Wake a Cat, 2007

Before I leave to face the world
I give her a kiss goodbye
She gives me a stare
A glare that says
I love you

Her eyes open wide as I come back home
I’m sure I had her worried
She licks her fur as I get ready for bed
Guarding me as she sees fit
Always by my side
She likes to stay
Keeping me warm
And protected

She curls up in her spot to my left
And finally closes her eyes
Knowing I am safe
The least I can do
Is let her sleep

You always towered over me
with thick and calloused hands holding my own,
a stark contrast to your slow, melodic voice.

When young, you would take me to the sea,
marking the stars with stories of old,
Orion, Ursa Major, Crius.

As I grew you taught me how to understand
all that is unjust, all that is pure,
and to never take my world for granted.
I failed you.

As decades rolled past me I never considered
they were passing for you too.
Slowly your stately frame shrunk, slumped,
as your hair grayed and fell to the ground unnoticed.

When I saw all this, it was too late.
Instead of those decades of memories to be made
I had wasted them on money, the future,
what could be instead of what is.

Those last years I had with you never changed the way I saw you,
though your height had diminished,
and your supple flesh stiffened.
Your eyes still gleamed as you pointed at the sky,
marking the stars with stories of old.
I will always remember you as you were in my youth
a Titan.

Inside me is an ocean

Cerulean and flickering

Never ending and nonexistent

The tide swells with my pride

And silver fish twirl beneath the surface with my joy

My laughter is a pod of dolphins leaping

And the sky turns a rosy sunset hue when I’m in love

The weather changes along with my mood

It can happen suddenly, in an instant

Whirlpools form with my anxiety

Swirling downward into deep darkness

Rain pours in with my sadness

Waves crash with my rage

But in time my serenity always returns

And with it, the frothy water stills

And the champagne fish resume their glittering pirouettes 

It has begun: Dido has left her sister
Leaving behind only a hatred renowned
A promise, for her son, her daughter

A memory, the slowest killer
Countless will plow its poisoned ground
It has begun: Dido has left her sister

Ushering in a war with no victor
A widow’s last sound
A promise, for her son, her daughter

Blood fills the ceaseless river
As a new king is crowned
It has begun: Dido has left her sister

There is no visitor
For that lonely mound,
A promise, for her son, her daughter

Acheron will soon empty into Lethe’s water
With it, a memory shall be drowned
It has begun: Dido has left her sister
A promise, for her son, her daughter