CANDLES FOR THE DEAD

I light candles for the dead,
I speak to them of the great Light.
I speak to them in my head-

after all, they aren't fed
where they're kept in eternal night.
That's why I light candles for the dead.

I tell them things often left unsaid-
the sort said after a fight;
but I only speak to them in my head.

They feed on my words like bread.
They are always in my sight.
And so I speak to them in my head.

But sometimes (only sometimes) I think instead,
what if it were me keeping quiet?
but then I light my candles for the dead,
or they'd speak to me in my head.

MOTHER IN RED revised

You are a flower in bloom, Mother.
You startle me with the color
of your laughter in the depths of night.

Darkness brings us no relief
from the heat,
but you do not waver, only smile.

You are a flower in bloom, Mother,
a flower standing tall in the night,
who will not bend, or bow, or break, but blooms.

CONFESSION revised

Your words leave me
naked,
my soul's scars exposed,
scars from where I cut myself
before,
wanting to leech my body
of the agony of love.


Your gaze leaves me
lost,
lost in the oceans of those
eyes of yours,
drifting like a petal
in the water wide and deep.

Your breath on my skin leaves me
cold,
cold in the wake of your words,
and I shiver,
but I stand here naked, willingly,
before you


that I might give myself
to the poetry of your hands.

CONFESSION

Your words on the page leave me
naked,
my soul's scars exposed,
scars from where I cut myself
before,
wanting to leech my body
of the agony of love.

Your stare leaves me
naked.
I see oceans in those eyes of yours,
oceans wide and deep,
pale jewels that glimer
in the afternoon sun's fading light,
glimmers that hint at the fire and steel beneath.

Your breath on my skin leaves me
cold,
cold in the wake of your words,

and though I shiver,
I stand here naked,
willingly,
before you
that I might give
myself
to the poetry of your hands.

LOVER LOST

Today,
I walked home alone.

We used to walk home together—he and I.
The nights were ours
as we talked in soft voices,
as our steps covered inches, feet, kilometers,
as the sun died its orange death,
as the stars came out.

You'd think we were the only people on the road
from the way we talked,
from the way we didn't talk,
just walking slowly, as though content, beside each other.

These days,
I walk home alone.
I talk to no one.
Now I see how dust covers everything in the summer heat.
My feet kick up little puffs of dust,
and I'm no longer sure which way to go
with all this dust in my eyes.

MOTHER IN RED

You are a flower in bloom, Mother.
You surprise me with the color
of your laughter in the depths of night.

How it rains, Mama, how it rains!
And yet still you smile and laugh
all throughout the day.

You are a flower in bloom, Mother,
a flower standing tall in the wind,
who will not bend, or bow, or break, but blooms.

FATHER IN BLUE

You left us one night.
Shadows loomed large on my wall
until dawn's light melted them away.

Did you know the air hung still
after you were gone?
The scent of your cologne has faded.

"Papa" is not a word
but a ghost in the house
who walks our rooms,

who tucks us in,
who leaves the toilet seat up,
who reigns in the empty chair at the table's head.

HUNGER

Oh, how you hunger
for tastes to tempt the tongue,
hurrying here and there
to a new restaurant every night,
every night,
joining just about anyone for dinner.
But it's not that,
don't you see?
It's about love, love,
love you can't find from people
so you reach for food
to feed a hunger
that comes from an empty soul.

SCAR


My wrist has a scar
where I cut myself
once before.

I meant to die,
but the blood stopped flowing
after a while.

There is only a scar now
where the cut was deep,
and perhaps it is true
that all wounds heal.

Or do they?
I pick at the scar
again and again
again and again

and it hurts,
though it will no longer bleed.