the truth is
i stared at your desk while it happened
eyes locked on the textbooks
balanced precariously
on a desk in a textbook dorm room
in the middle of a textbook definition
of a situation that would ensure a girl couldn't feel anymore

the truth is
if i kept my eyes focused on the orange binding
that read "alculus" from my viewpoint
then i wouldn't feel the ratty blue sheets
that i'd somehow woken up in
scratching my skin
or taste the jack daniels on your breath
mixing with the salt from my damp face
or hear the sound of solo cups
intermittently falling to the ground
on the other side of the door

the truth is
if i just imagined
the mountains of knowledge
that lay inside
colonial latin america: a documentary history
i wouldn't feel the cross around your neck
hitting my chest
or be able to make out
my torn dress balled up on the floor
or feel your sock covered feet
rubbing against my cold, bare ones

the truth is
if i counted the rings
on your spiraled notebook
then i could say i truthfully
didn't feel anything at all

Grace

there was heat.

and the smell of stale sweat

from mother and child.

from children –

five dead, two alive.

like a blanket of dust

in an empty house

sweat and tears

inherited disease

clung to furniture of this ten by ten shack.

nowhere else to go,

it settled

like its tenants

whose past, present, and death

were determined at birth

by the luck of location and tribe

adopted

by their name.

at first

she said,

there was desperation.

a choking desire to remove physical tension

created by droughts, famines,

and a country run by men.

she left dry earth

for concrete landfills

in some city where

there was enough food

and lazy afternoons taken,

in between red earth huts and

narrow slithers of sunshine.

there were mornings too,

sometimes.

when the women from gated communities

did not care to employ slaves from the nearby ghetto.

rest days brought more problems,

too much liberty meant time

to fuck the alcoholic into more irresponsibility.

she said

“he fooled me”

when he stayed a week too many,

and held her hair as she wretched

maize and potatoes

that grew two feet from swine and sewer.

he left the night she could

no longer hold her bladder

and noticed her figure

was turning into that of a sweet, round mother.

still the produce of her labor

lent her episodes of sheer joy,

to share her blood and life with another,

only to realize

much later

the same life giver

took her three sons

and two daughters

well before they could love and feed her.

there was heat.

and large black flies

which came

and settled

on red earth walls

and sweat

on her

and her two

live children.

Knighted in the ER

Joan of Arc
in triage.
Elaine Benes
in triage.
Sobriety times three,
oh wait- you and I,
Jude and I, maybe.
Special request for
anesthesia from
an open container
and an open coffin.
Take the IV
and suck out the seduction.
Push my cheekbones
and find a new family.
I would do that for you.
Climb in the stretcher,
tuck me in white,
echo the newborn boy,
a doctor's refusal to tie our laces,
laced into the exorcist,
visioned the stream of tequila,
and all the lost moments
to play that DJ,
to curse the bartender,
to bow in our own rank.
Slayers, come only once
or twice into triage.
Belittling off fat,
stabbing men's digits,
dripping off curdled eyeliner.
An arcist by night
if only tears reeked battery.
I'd be your comedic sidekick,
bent into six mixed drinks,
a cloud of blood and vodka,
protected by your tin foil shield
and my bouffant buffer,
born again into medieval revelery
and a lipstick smeared sitcom.

Reflection on a black magic woman

I cant write this poem because she's on my mind,

everything I write becomes about her,

she's the only thing I think about,

can't I escape her?

She makes me happy

yet

she makes me miserable.

I can't trust her

yet

I can't get away,

I'm captivated.

She's a black magic woman for sure.

She's evil, a witch, a sorceress,

manipulating me with tricks,

lies so beautiful I awe at them.

She loves them and knows I do too,

I'm trapped in her garden maze,

lost track of all time,

can't rhyme,

suffering from regret,

worry, neglect and elation,

She's nullified my mind, I've lost

both strategy and contemplation.

I'm a poor victim now,

emotion without armor,

losing all my sleep,

spiraling out of control, and

I might be able to salvage a slice of my heart

if i can escape soon,

but it can't happen,

it won't happen,

she's got me captivated already.

Nothing left to do now,

there's no escape, and

at this point, it's pointless to try.

All I can know, is it's

time to speak no more,

time to pick myself up and

fight my way through,

and yet,

this is all happening

just how its supposed to.