Poems by Me

He was a peculiar thing.

Dressed in a long, brown cloth. Burlap maybe, 

or the stuff priests wear to seem homely.

He stood behind a tree, hoping I’d go on my merry way, 

if that means anything to you.

Funny, I can’t recall where there are trees on the island,

I haven’t seen them since.

But I know something was blocking my full view of him

I could tell his face was a different face.

Pear-shaped, obscuring his neck, heavy.

With eyes soft, shining like the exterior of wet fava beans 

my aunt brought home on Wednesdays.

When home was a place, not a feeling to find,

wandering the woods alone.

He ran away eventually, never letting me have a word.

I think about him all the time now.

When I look around the office,

And need to feel less strange.

I must have protested until sleep began to slowly set in.

I don’t remember the plane ride, I don’t remember the other passengers,

My mother was there, but I don’t remember it.

Did you know that they serve vanilla pudding on airplanes?

I had never had pudding before and I’m wondering, 

If the tall lady on the plane would be kind enough to bring me another.

It was the summer of 1995. Or maybe it was winter.

My life then did not have seasons to guide my memory,

So bear with me, and let’s just say it was summer. 1995.

Standing hunched over, I dug my feet deep into the dirt of the earth.

I hated shoes. They were so restricting.

But I was getting on a plane, which I was told was occasion for restrictions.

I keep my eyes pierced to the ground, holding tightly to my grandmother’s legs,

always rooted firmly like I needed them to be, in order to swing from them.

The tall lady hasn’t come around with my pudding, so I’ll continue my story.

There were people all around me that day. Before the flight.

People from all over town, coming to say goodbye,

I try hard, but I can’t remember anyone else, besides her.

I thought that if I held onto her tightly enough, they’d let her come with me,  

That if I buried myself into her pleated skirt, became one with its flowers,

They’d pack us both up in the same suitcase.

I’m wrestling in my seat trying to keep the tired at bay,

I’ve been told that flying takes a lot out of you.

But now I know that it’s not the flying. It’s the leaving home part. 

I’m not sure anymore that my grandmother’s skirt had flowers on it.

You see, I didn’t have seasons then, and now I’m almost certain it was black. 

Because that’s what you wear when you mourn someone you love.

And that’s what we’ve been doing ever since. 

‘Sodade,’ the Portuguese call it,

And I wish they would stop making separation seem merciful.

My eyes are getting heavy now.

If the tall lady on the plane comes back before I wake up,

Please make sure you tell her that the second pudding is for my grandmother.   

Audio/Video Recording

my mother was my best friend.

i was the center of her universe.

where I went, she followed

carrying me on her back, 

while my four-year old legs dangled behind her,

even when she grew tired.

then the ocean separated us

and I was tossed into the land of opportunity.

i suppressed our memories

cut loose the heartstrings that once attached us.

i felt like i had to

in order to assume this new identity.

in order to better consume the opportunities.

to prove the sacrifice was worth everyone’s while.

we met again many years later.

she was a shell of a woman

whose emptiness had eaten her from the inside.

i glanced over and turned away, 

as if we were strangers in a grocery store.

you might cringe at its cruelty.

she did not know that she was the woman

whose loss caused me the most pain

whose absence meant my soul arrives everywhere broken.

i’ve spent years searching for her in other people

trying to find someone to carry me on their back,

when my legs grow tired.

i can’t seem to bring myself to see it all resting, 

right there, where I once left it.

as if, by unlucky fate,  

a point in time 

is permanently etched in stone.

and I will always be a child,

searching for a mother’s love.

even with it reaching.        

Put me on a boat 

Let me sail into the ocean

Send me far, far away 

So that the sea can remind me how small i am 

So that i can remember that the vastness of life 

Is not measured by this point in time

That this aching in my chest 

Won’t always be crippling

Toss me in a bottle

With all of your greatest wisdom

So that i can replay my mistakes

But relive them with perspective 

Remind me that if i play out life the right way

That I’m only just beginning to learn

The lessons I was built for

Let me be lost for a while 

Let me feel.

Let me bleed.

Let me help myself through the shattering 

Through the searching

Through the healing

Until one day i have enough to find me (again)

So that i may one day find you (again)

Don’t ask me how soon I’ll return 

The lessons are different in depth and distance 

And when i got on that boat 

I left the length of the journey 

For the ocean to decide.

Understand that when I’m lost at sea 

It’s not because i need saving

It’s because sometimes you need

Solitude to swallow you

So that you can stare at yourself 

From the inside.

Don’t feel that this is your fault 

This is just part of my story.

If I believed in destiny, this would be its kin. 

The waves were calling.

And this time, I simply had to go.

The dishes in the sink pile high. 

I’m always surprised at how quickly the bowl of oatmeal dries up 

and leaves a stubborn crust around the rim.

My hands move in circles I don’t have to think about, 

slipping in and out of cups, dipping in and out of containers,

around sharp knives, and smooth spoons. 

My science teacher would be upset if she knew that 

I let the water run, in between silver and porcelain and plastic.

I stare out the window and remember,

when I was 5, the volcano on the island erupted.

The village evacuation protocol said pack your prized possessions

and move the family from within the home, to its roof.

I sat on a mattress my uncle managed to lug up,

to keep the kids contained while the earth rumbled.

The sky became dark with dust and sulfur dioxide. 

I imagined being swallowed up by the shroud, 

which would then leave behind stubborn crusts

of the people who once lived here.

I’m 13 and my stepmom hovers over me, 

inspecting to make sure that the glass sparkles, 

and the pot was rid of all signs of burnt, 

hardened rice I had spent several minutes softening,

until I feel the gentle glide of soap and sponge against steel.
She waited to make sure she could see her own reflection 

in the aluminum basin I’ve now emptied. 

The other night, my partner and I decide to try a recipe

from the new cookbook we just purchased.

It was my night to do that dishes, but the long day

had placed stones over my eyes, so I decided 

that the stack could wait until morning.

She mumbled a toneless, 

you know I don’t like when dishes are left in the sink overnight.

and a sudden burst of wrath and fury came over me.

I was volcano, dust and dark shroud. 

I sat up on our mattress that night, 

gave fire to fear, and made sure the earth rumbled.

The next day in therapy, 

I was reminded of my tendency to harden, 

showing up as stubborn crust of a life I once lived.

So I walked towards the sink,

perfectly pacing fingers and palms, 

the gentle glide of soap and sponge against steel.

I let the water run, 

until I feel myself soften.

We are in the middle, we are in between.

I see the snow glisten and picture paw prints in them.

The light shines through dirty windows 

And I want to clean them for tomorrow. 

For the better version of today I promised you.

We are in the middle, in the between.

My coffee is black and the snow is glistening. 

I imagine yesterday’s colors

And reach for the ones I like the most.

The ones that are loudest when the rain passes. 

I don’t like the middle, not much for in betweens.

Out there, fall leaves bargain with winter’s bristles 

But I am here and you are here.

My black coffee is sweeter when you make it

And light still shines through dirty windows.