The Reckoning

The Reckoning
Restless, in a midday swig of regret,
you reach for me in disguise, a different man,
still drunk with the waves that swell from the salt of your ego
to reel me in, to rescue, to revive me within you
In your words, “You are the reckoner”
In my ears, “You are the relapse”
You seek refuge in my amber whiskey skin
to retreat from the bitter beats in your chest

I wade in your stream of consciousness
to wet my feet in our reconnaissance
In your eyes, “You were a convenience.”
In my mind, “I was a fool”
You pursue me on foot in midday blues
The stumbles in your stride release me.

Awake

Awake
An epiphany awakened me this morning:
“Time is the only belief every person will follow.”
These words sprinkle across my brain; soil
from a dream where past lovers poke me with cattle prods
and urge me to meander through green pastures,
to dig through my innocence in search of revival.
I swear I seize the defining breaths through their palms,
that my trembles beneath the grit of their skin are proof
of tenure, that we’ve added our words to the subtraction
of clothes, and our limbs multiply into a likeness of Shiva.
I believe time will offer the logistics of our curiosity
a porous concrete to sink our feet into if we grow weary
of the weight we bear when we gaze at our reflections,
within each other’s eyes, through the scope of our fears.
We open our eyes when we need to, like the birds do.
The confirmation of being awake, still pending.

When Angles Dance

When Angles Dance
You told me that in order to change life,
I must first change myself;
To search, to nourish, to love myself.
But you never told me what it means to fall.
To trip over pieces of the gravel beneath me,
and join the weakest part of them;
not malleable, just easily broken,
not rough, just jagged around the edges.
You never told me what it means to surrender,
that the trip is just the foreshadowing of death
And the fragments from the fall are the beginning
of a whimsical waltz, the other side of living.
Have you ever seen angles dance?
We're the debris that glides through the wind,
We tousle your hair and nip at your skin,
You take a second to sweep us away
You told me that in order to change life,
I must first change myself.
I am lost, I am hollow, and I am open.
Dance with me.

Generations

One morning when I am eight years old, I wake up to the sound of my mother crying. I climb out of bed with fear pulsing in my little belly. It’s a pitiful cry. It doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard. The only grown up I’ve ever seen cry was Auntie Sharon once when Cousin Richie got hit by a car. She dipped her head so we wouldn’t see her face. She was quiet. I thought she looked graceful, like the White Swan from Swan Lake. I walk into the kitchen where my mother is hunched over the counter. Her peach face is swollen and splotchy. Her eyes are glazed with tears and sleep. Her hair looks like a bush of daggers. She doesn’t look like my Mommy. She looks like a monster. I want to turn around and jump underneath the warm covers on my bed, where it’s safe. But she sounds sad. I have to know what’s wrong. “Mommy?” “Kristen, go to your room.” “Are you okay?” “Just go to your room!” I turn around and choke back my own tears. Mommy never likes to see me cry. She says it makes me look weak. I crawl under my baby pink comforter and wipe my eyes. Daddy was coming back from his trip today. I missed him. He seems to like having me around. He always wakes me up in the morning by kissing my forehead and calling me Princess. Mommy doesn’t like it when he calls me Princess. She says it makes me look spoiled. “Look at this pig sty.” Mommy stands at my door. Everyone says that I look just like her. But right now she looks like a witch. “I’m still a little bit sleepy Mommy; I promise I will clean up my room later.” She bends down and picks up my favorite white skirt from off the floor. She tosses it so it drifts over my face. “Do you think I’m your maid? What, you thought since Daddy was gone I was going to pick up after you instead of him?” “No, Mommy.” “You think my father would ever let me sleep late on a Sunday morning with a room this disgusting?” She laughs. It’s a wild laugh. Her nose flares and her eyes look madder than before. “You don’t know how easy you have it, Princess.” She spits the word out like bitter fruit. “You think Daddy was really on a business trip this weekend?” I clutch my covers and draw it over my lips. I am scared but I’m not allowed to show fear on my face. All I can do is nod. “Well, Daddy is cheating on me, Princess. Do you understand what that means?” “Yes. I’m sorry, Mommy.” We stare at each other in silence. Her eyes are my eyes. But I don’t see myself in them. “Get up and get ready. I’m dropping you off at Grandma’s house. I’m picking up Daddy from the airport.” She walks off and I cry into my favorite skirt, dampening the white fabric with my confusion. I take a shower and put on the dress Grandma made for me. It’s a combination of my favorite things. Frills, flowers, and a flowing skirt. I swirl in front of the mirror, savoring the wind that wisps around me. “Kristen, let’s go.” I follow Mommy out of the house. She’s washed her face and put on some lipstick. Her eyes are a little bit puffy but she is beautiful. It comforts my little mind as I put on my seatbelt in the backseat of her Camry. “I might leave him, you know.” “What do you mean, Mommy?” “I might divorce Daddy.” My eyes widen. I don’t like that word. A couple of kids in my class have parents who are divorced. They’re the ones who get F’s on their tests and shove the other kids too hard during recess. “Please don’t divorce him Mommy.” She keeps her eyes on the road. Her peach hands are white from clutching the steering wheel too hard. “If we do get a divorce, who would you rather live with?” “I don’t know.” “You might have to choose.” “I don’t want to choose.” She looks angry again. I look down at my hands. I feel guilty but I’m not sure why. I wish I knew the words to say to make her happy. We pull into Grandma’s driveway and her face transforms. Her eyes look brighter and her peach cheeks look like mine, with a healthy flush in the apples. We walk to the door and she grabs my hand. It feels like a stranger’s. Mommy isn’t too affectionate with me. She says I get enough kisses and hugs from Daddy. She says I need to learn independence. But when we’re around Grandma, that rule changes. I’m grateful for it. “Hi, Grandma!” I wrap my arms around her waist and squeeze. She always smells like cinnamon. “Hello, Mother.” She leans in and gives Grandma a kiss on the cheek. “Good morning, lovelies.” She brings us both into her arms and we hug. Grandma is cinnamon. Mommy is green apple. I am baby powder. We’re three generations in one embrace. This is what safety feels like. “I will be back soon Kristen, be good for Grandma, okay?” “Okay, Mommy. I love you.” “Love you too.” Grandma takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen. My eyes zone in on the flour, eggs, and sugar on the counter. I instantly know we are making cinnamon cookies. I look up at her and she winks at me. “Put on your apron.” The kitchen reminds me of this morning and the sight of Mommy crying. I sigh. “Are you okay, Krissy?” “Yes, Grandma.” “How is school?” “Good. I got picked to be in my school’s spelling bee.” “Wow! Good for you sweetheart! You’ve always been great with words.” I take out a mixing bowl from the cupboard. I love baking cookies with Grandma. But there’s sadness in me that sweet aromas cannot erase. “I don’t think so, Grandma.” “What is wrong Krissy?” I never cry in front of other people. Not even Grandma. But fat tears barrel down my cheeks again. “I think Mommy and Daddy are getting divorced.” Grandma looks surprised. Her eye furrow together and she looks at me. “Did your Mom tell you that?” “Yes. She was crying about it earlier. She said I might have to choose who to live with.” Grandma clicks her teeth and shakes her head. “She was just upset Krissy. I’m sure she doesn’t mean it.” I’m sobbing now. I feel foolish. Mommy would be disgusted if she saw me this way. “But Daddy is cheating on her. She said so herself.” Grandma leads me to the dining room table and we sit down. She cups her hand against my face. Her skin is warm and gentle. “How old are you Krissy?” “Eight.” “What is your favorite color?” “Pink.” “What is your favorite thing to do?” I sniff and look around. I spot a bottle of cinnamon on the oven. “Bake cookies with you.” Grandma smiles and kisses my forehead, just like Daddy does. “Then go and get the measuring cups out of the cupboard.” Grandma walks out of the kitchen. I stand tall on my toes and reach for the higher cupboard. I can barely touch it. I manage to open the door with one finger and edge the cup out. Grandma is the one who usually gets the cups. I smile. I’m growing. I sit back down at the table. I can hear Grandma’s faint voice in the living room. “She’s a child Maureen; she doesn’t need to know that about her father!” Grandma is talking on the phone. She’s trying to keep her voice low but I can hear the sharpness in her voice. For a moment, she sounds like Mommy when she’s talking to me. “You are a mother to an eight year old girl. Your daughter needs someone to look up to, not run away from.” I look at the clock above the refrigerator. It reads 11:47am. It’s not even the afternoon yet and it feels like my family is tearing apart. I walk over to Grandma. Her face is twisted into an expression I cannot understand. “Can I go out in the backyard?” I whisper. She nods silently. I can hear Mommy’s voice on the other end. She sounds sad. I walk outside. Grandma’s backyard is huge. There are tall coconut trees on the left side of the yard. They remind me of Grandpa. Sometimes, he would climb to the top. He would grip the limbs and branches, grunting for strength. It was the first time my neck ever craned that high. It was the first time he became a warrior in my eyes. He would reach to the top and look down and wink at me. I looked up at him with an awe only a five year old could feel. Then he would shake the tree. Bundles of coconuts tumbled to the ground. Some would crack open from the pressure while others would roll away until they reached my feet. “Pick up the one you want!” He would yell down to me from what I thought was a different world. I picked up the coconut and he climbed down the tree. He was swift and quick like a gorilla. He jumped down and walked over to me. “Watch this.” He grabbed a small hammer from his pocket. He lightly tapped the coconut with it three times. Then he crashed the hammer against it. The coconut split open into two even halves. Each part was filled with a pale liquid in the center. “You can drink it.” He brought the coconut to his lips and gulped the water down. I followed suit. The water was warm but sweet. I smiled at the syrupy flavor. “It tastes like candy, Grandpa.” “It is nature’s candy, Krissy. It is made from everything you see out here.” “So there were no people to make it?” “Nope, the Earth already knows how make it just perfect.” “So we’re in the middle of perfect right now?” “Yes, we are always in the middle of perfect, Krissy. Don’t ever forget that.” ¬¬¬¬¬¬I gaze up at the coconut tree. It is three years later and Grandpa is heaven. A more perfect place than where I am standing. A place that I cannot see, but I know is there. I see Mommy’s face in my mind. Her sadness scares me more than my nightmares of her in my sleep. She needs to be where I am standing. I walk across the grass. The green blades tickle my feet. There’s a hammock in the middle of the yard. I climb in and lay on my back. I close my eyes. I realize I’ve fallen asleep when I hear a voice. “Hi, Princess.” My dad is standing at the door. He is smiling but it’s not his usual smile. It looks forced and unnatural. I run over to him and he sweeps me up into his arms. “I missed you, Daddy. “ “I missed you too Princess.” I let go of him and we start walking around the spacious yard. I grab his hand. “Daddy, are you and Mommy getting divorced?” He squeezes my hand gently. “Mommy was just upset, Kristen. Grown-ups fight. Sometimes they get angry to the point where they say stuff they don’t mean.” “But you cheated on Mommy.” His face sets into stone. He shakes his head and stays quiet. “Do you still love her?” “Of course I do.” He says it quickly. It’s what I need to hear. We’re in front of Grandpa’s coconut tree, now. It has grown to the point where I can barely see the top. I smile. “Grandpa told me once, that when we’re outside, we’re always in the middle of perfect.” Daddy looks up at the tree and smiles too. “He told me that too, when I told him I was going to marry your Mom.” “Is that why you and Mommy had your wedding out here?” “Yes.” “How come you guys don’t come out here anymore?” “We don’t have time. We’re both too busy with work.” I look up at him. He looks tired. “Wait here.” I say. I run back into the house. Mommy and Grandma are sitting on the living room couch. My mother’s eyes are tears and sadness again. “Mommy, I think Daddy needs some help out there.” She looks pained. “What happened?” “Just go outside. He’s by Grandpa’s coconut tree.” She gets up and goes out into the backyard. I close the door behind her and watch. Mommy walks over to Daddy and they both stand in silence. Mommy starts crying again and she starts to yell at him. Her peach face turns red and she has transformed into a monster once again. Only this time, Daddy tries to hug her but she pushes him away. Grandma walks beside me and looks at them. She sighs. I lean against her. She kisses the top of my head. I look up at her. “Can we make chocolate chip cookies instead, Grandma?”

An Assault of Omnipresent Proportions

In confidence, the fourth hour of this blackened sky beckons to us with celestial witnesses who have gathered to assess our debauchery, and the wind builds courage to attempt a cease and desist of our sins, whips its chains of frozen contempt against our bare spines, it howls in disapproval as our session of damnation rides the waves of nirvana in blatant disobedience, and the stars are sad, their maternal glow retreats behind mocking clouds, those damn clouds, how they parody our union with their moist presence, their poker face changes cards from stark to lingering, as our skins grow wet from their intrusion, their laughter climaxes over us and we feel their release in translation of our own.

Electric Nostalgia

Nostalgia thumps in my chest
When I stroll by a kid who reads
a book made of light,
with a choice to zoom in
for a clearer view of the words
on its screen of rich gloss

One click bookmarks a page.
Another click whisks her away
To a social media heaven
Where instant messages
gather to reward her youth

Nostalgia flows through my thoughts
As I remember the time when books
were the sustenance for this kid

When libraries held the landmarks
for bliss to guide my triumphant flips
through the pages of my prize in spine

Nostalgia hits my heart with a beat
as I remember Saturday mornings spent
reading a dusty copy of The Secret Garden
Dusty books were the best to this kid

A young mind that conjured kings
and queens before me who read this book
then passed it down to their kids
who were princes and princesses

And in that book, I palmed the ashes
of their royalty which were now
the roots of my own glory

Nostalgia bows my head in honor
for the memories of a golden time
When imagination was a gift

A time when books to a child
meant a chance to explore
the mystique of literature

And zoom was a speed in which this kid’s
mind traveled across written worlds
composed in wondrous freedom

Nostalgia breathes in the air of innocence
I sigh with pride of having truly lived as a kid

Citrus

I went to the store today and bought a beer with lime
I don’t drink alcohol unless my throat swells
Then a vanilla whiskey will open me up just fine
But today I was in the clear of all common ails
I just needed a new destination for awhile
The place where boozers go to unwind
I could listen to music or walk a mile
But the bottle of brew suits me just fine
The lime is the perfect touch