In My Own Bed

Sometimes I want to cry but I’m afraid
if I start I won’t stop until the whole of Earth
is filled and flooded with tears that hurt
the soil with salt that kills all trees and herbs,
daisies and gazanias, tulips and orchids,
and every heavenly stem of baby’s-breath.
So I must defend against destroying the Earth.

But sometimes I’m still more afraid,
petrified of something much much worse,
of shedding hot tears that always dry and fade,
of my choked weeping sounds that go unheard,
of roses that bloom, secrete their heavenly scents
just as before, trees that grow and folks who wed,
while I drown in strange tears alone in my own bed.

From High Up Here

From high up here, it's crystal clear:
His graded garden down the street—
its charcoal soil, the ancient bed
of colored life, the humid home
of carrots, pumpkins, yams, and corn;
tomatoes, radish, luscious beets;
cilantro, okra, tasty peas;
and melons (huge and juicy, near 
the orchid flowers); planted, grown,
and toiled upon for many hours
by swarthy hands that hurt, in gloves;
with grace and zeal, unsullied love—
resembles any other dirt. 

But Looking Back Tonight…

As I look tonight I see a clock that is cracked. 
My muffins tucked in bed, so we’re alone perhaps, 
the tree aglow in red, and all the presents wrapped,  
a Lego set for Kat—But face it, facts are facts! 
You smashed the clock (recall: my gift the day we met), 
and broke the twenty-year-old glass. Your bags been packed 
for years inside your head.  And yet I’d grown attached  
to whispers in the dark, addicted to your scent….
Though you left, it was your orchid pillow I kept, 
and for years and years I hugged the pillow and wept. 
You recall the nights I kissed the curve of your back? 
Hurts me you never truly loved me, loved me back. 
Now I know the thing was just a lie, was an act... 
But tonight I’ve you, my happy family, back.   
And looking back tonight I see the clock…intact.