If I had found today that

I was pregnant

I wondered who it was I would tell


Would I wait for tomorrow

Could I? To tell you…

Amongst pages of Adrien Rich simply

pass the time until


I found out today … I have


waiting for you to fill

Pages of desert landscape

Amongst cornbread baking and the smells of coffee

I dream of a single Eagle feather in my hand and

Ask you for directions to an ancient sea

Simply invite tomorrow

So you

can tell me what it is


That you found

To something.

Something we push through


Chest whirring

Eyes red.  So heavy

pushing sleep

never wanting to go back.

I didn’t find you so I could fall apart again and

dismantle for nothing

i believe

You pursue

the inner workings of the mystery.

I am mystery unaware

of my inner workings

You will never know

how many times I’ve traveled
the same path we walked that first day
late December
Each time
never making it farther than the bridge.
The first time I retraced our steps almost exactly
stopping at the same points of interest
remembering the quality of our conversation and
the longing that followed
Crossing the train tracks
from one path to the other
I went under the bridge and

Wiped tears in the dirt where water once lived.

Pungent chamisa. Wild flowers purple and orange.
Weeds overgrown and Autumn heat.

You’ll never know Alexander

I thought I’d never get over you then

longing like kite strings


With the rise and fall of expectation and desire..

the flush of face and flutter in rib cage at the thought

of what I want to do to you.

Longing so great.

Loneliness you sense

through text message and email.

Disappointed by how much I want you

to fill my wanting

Embarrassment and need….

Just touch me

or lead me in skin

to some corner somewhere where streets meet and they have names

that tangle under moonlight

reflect the light of day in sun.

Balance the need to hide what bleeds out of every pore

ever since you touched me.

i became stories

flat and sharp

symbols that describe


touching objects

treading  ground

watching line after line

THen my fAthEr dieD

Wednesday I visit his son in jail

When he’s a story it doesn’t hurt so much

Anger replaces the broken pieces

Love turns dry and crumbles into disappointment

remains of which I constantly try to brush off

or gather enough together

for one last bite.

So much life spent longing

For what might not even exist.

I want to shred the stories that end

at peak experiences…they’ve ruined me

as I feel the reel must be about to end

no film continues for this long and each day

i continue on….. jumping from story line to story line….



that language has forgotten me and my errors

mirror those of my father

no more need for upper case soon

no more need for letters at all

i love the way he calls me sal

My memory serves what it needs to

to carry me to the deepest places

that don’t require syntax or punctuation


that poverty has become

a habit

i rebel against my own insistence of anything

refine what can’t be glanced at and forgotten

and pull weeds from your garden


that I’ve lost all hope in my being what will

draw the perfect “partner” i bridge to

the healing respect has to offer

and friendship sweetened

each time you call me