Routine

At one, I’ve just finished lunch.

The dishes lie in the sink.

It’s Friday; you should be home

for dinner.

I look to the door.

At two, I am putting away our laundry.

You like it color-coordinated,

and pre-scented with your cologne.

I think of our honeymoon in Paris.

I look to the door.

At three, my grandfather’s clock chimes

an old oriental tune. I smile at

our memories together since high school.

We should visit the mainland again soon.

I look to the door.

At four, I am looking through the recipes.

I wonder what I should cook

for you tonight. It’s a special night

just for you and me.

I look to the door.

At five, I shower and dress.

My hair must be done. I glance at the clock.

My neck exposed, anticipating
your lips across my skin.

I look to the door.

At six, I place the wine glasses.

My hands shake as I light the candle.

The bok choy is next to your favorite chicken

And the rice is steaming. The vapors tickle my nose.

I look to the door.

It’s seven; I sit at the table alone.

You should have been home three years ago.

I look

at the door.

I look.

Victim

My fingers move over the tight rope,

feeling each string against my skin.

The soft silken thread,

so thin, so fragile,

yet it can form something strong.

Coarse and rough under my touch.

I tug, feeling it vibrate

with a soft twang through my skinny arms.

He sits on the chair, blinded and still.

His mouth is forced open, drooling.

Sliding off his lower lip, dripping

off his chiseled chin. His hair is wet.

His chest is bare, covered in sweat,

and the cotton pants dirty and torn.

What is the difference

between mud and blood?

I caress his forehead. Look at the

rosy cheeks blossoming like flowers.

If only he can stay like this

forever. My Greek god.

So I bind the rope around his neck.

I pull.

So delicate. The strings

and threads feel heavy now.

But my heart has never felt lighter.

As A Sail Disappears

into the horizon where the burning coin sinks,

a soul beats against mine under the same covers as nights before.

Our bodies infest the cotton, but where are our voices?

Soft apples glow under the light, tough bones grazing.

Staring into your bright wells imprisoning dark, chilling winds, my heart opens anew.

Our laughter echoes along darkened walls inked with memories.

The nets are raised, choppy waters biting the loosely threaded ends.

Your winter storms—hard, slushy and wet—leave frost at my doorstep.

You are the breath in my chest, making it sink and rise, rise and sink.

The blue stars tremble in the vast black seas above,

as the sea breeze glides across my face like the flutter of wingless butterflies.

A blade

  slices,

 like a dancer, your words across the air.

Now the clocks of the world stop, as if frozen in a dream,

         floating.

The night has dropped below my feet and swallowed me whole.

Touch my soul, oh dearest one, won’t you touch my soul once more?

Age

A shimmer catches my eye;

Gleam of white in a web,

Black as ancient ink. It’s Wisdom,

Experience. Why worry?

And what

If one were born with silver?

You will never be completely the same.

The white spreads like leprosy.

Moving.

A disease, infestation.

Growing.

A horror. A repulsion.

Increasing.

One will pluck at the abnormality.

Receding.

We try to make it disappear.

Decreasing.

It is mutation.

Reducing.

But like a cloud of spores, it will grow.

Before we know it, it will be what we are.

Dissolved.

Some are imprisoned by it all their lives.

Color will disappear and fade.

It does not last and never will.

We are never completely the same.

Pride comes to those who accept.

To carry the mark of white is worth being proud.

Once we earn it, it will never

be robbed of us.