Undercover of Light

We whispered secrets

in the space between blood red covers

and sites of slumber

thick and heavy

safely sealed from the nakedness of apologies.

Bare skin and weightless words

composed truths beneath our songs.

I sang disbelief.

Of actions delivered so naturally,

uncontrived and holy.

He sang loving uncertainty

and kissed my lips

and body away

from learned anxiety,

a mistrust I gathered,

held to my breast

for so long

it is ability.

He only prays for me,

bowed his head,

crossed his heart,

lit a candle

in my vein

for me

to rest

in his peace.

In Her New Place

I was not allowed to drive my car to the center.

They said

1. Only I was allowed to see her

2. I was not allowed to know her location,

her place

in this

metropolitan waiting room

as if I

would help her hasten her death.

The white van came for me

at 7 in the morning.

I had been sitting on my four poster for an hour,

imitating my religiously hungover self, me

as solitary space cadet

I heard the beep

two times

the sound of maids punching in my room code,

“nandito na ang kotse, ma’am.”

I’ll be down in 5.

I surveyed my room,

Reached for a large canvas bag to fill with

1. inspirational novels, poetry collections
2. good music released over the last two years
3. my unanswered letters – each one unopened and deliberately sealed, with words, stickers, tape.

Do not tamper.

4. black lace dress I wore to the last masquerade

But she doesn’t need it in there.

She doesn’t need to know

our world goes on without her

and I live my life too.

L

They were at Mo's when
our drug dealer Jay showed up and
Leroy was in his car.
He said "If you don't want it
it's going to end up out
on the street."
"Is it a boy or a girl?"
"I don't fucking know."
"I mean,
I guess we'll take it..."

He was a boy.

I had gone home
to vote for Barack
Obama. (who WON, by the way)
And when I walked
into my kitchen after
being home,
Frank had him
asleep in his hood
and told me to reach in
and see what was in there.

I could fit him in
the palm of my hand
and his belly was
swollen from starvation.
He shook constantly but
he would meow and look into your eyes
and you knew that he knew what was going on.

It took us two weeks to name him.

Conduit

After years
of being an atheist,
god has come back to me,
accidentally--a collective god,
the godhead, the great spirit,
a yahweh, whatever.
I still mostly ignore it.
I still only pray
to the shifting soil of ants
and confess to my peers.

Here's a
confession: I dream of holding
my dead dog for hours.

A confession: I want to sleep
on the floor, in a ball, all day.

Confession: a man outside my window
asks his crying daughter, "Are you hurt
or are you scared?" And after
a moment, repeats, "Are you hurt,
or are you scared?"
Scared! I shout from upstairs.

Confession: after class I cry hysterically.
I can't even make it home.
I sit at a bus stop on Broadway
and sob.

Confession: when I see you, unexpectedly,
my heart is a drowning train car,
a free-falling elevator,
a bird in a cage, an empty bus on Broadway.
I reach out to touch you, to feel
a few hairs beneath my fingertips.
My hand does not make it.

Confession: I hugged everyone
too hard. I needed
their hearts.

Confession: when I got home,
my sister held me, thank god
she was there, while I hiccuped
over the sink.

Confession: I slept through
the afternoon, reaching out
for water, and tossing and twisting,
listening to my roommate
move through the apartment alone.
It's cold in here today
with all the broken windows.

Confession: I dreamt of making love
to a woman with a wide,
pale gash on the back
of her thigh.
I will never see her
again. I don't know where
she came from.

Confession: sometimes I think
that's what god is.
When you make love
to an imaginary stranger
but still remember
their scars.