Home

Home,

a word we built,

clay in our child hands

destined for glossy oven birth.

Home became

a word that flutters,

a wanderer without anchors,

defiant sails braced for storm thrusts,

stained, and needing to be polished again,

reborn.

But back to home

at the beginning.

*

If my child walls

had a color, they would be

Pueblo red, mud soft, brick strong.

If memory has a color, that’s it.

I once believed in jackal-fears and viper

lighting storms, skeleton grins

and spider nightmares.

But the monsters never came.

Not near my mother’s smell,

her squeaky kiss, the clean sheets.

Not near Dad’s heavy feet upstairs,

his whistle-hum over the coffee

machine, sister’s sparkling eyes

as she flushes my jelly sandals

in the toilet.

These moments

still hum like an old cat on my lap,

worthy of affection.

*

Then I saw how Home

must grow into mosaic,

how Time cracks and breaks it,

how we must mold the

old pieces into soft, fresh clay.

A constant art.

Family vacations through mountain

passes, rain spinning against my window,

listening to our murmurs

whip away in time,

holding our words in my

mind on replay.

Maybe that is why I write.

To hold the pieces long after they’ve

crumbled. To remember

their magic.

*

But sometimes for too long

I consider the cracks:

A song on the radio

reminding me of an old friend.

How I hold you, love,

like water.

Rome, already deteriorating

two times faster

in my mind

since last summer.

Arguments like bee stings,

swollen days after.

Praying for reconciliation.

As a child, burying a mole.

Its soft, dark eyes closed

because it dug too many mansions.

Aching to be in our apartment

in Rome, just for a moment

to feel again the pressing heat,

to see white shirts fluttering

on a neighbor’s clothesline.

*

But when I consider

all this too deeply,

I forget to work in new clay.

While I try to rest in the words

and the anchors of the people I love

my mind still fights to fly

past stars, through deep waters.

I could build so many Babels

if my flesh and bones

didn’t hold me so tightly.

But even Superman must have felt

empty. Alone,

that is the price of flight.

See me with all my cracks,

I’m too old now for child walls.

But always young enough

to warm my hands at the

hearth of the ones I love,

between my snow journeys

for new walls.

That is when I taste it.

*

When I taste this one Home

I have still to enter.

Most days, it seems more

mirage than solid,

an eternal desert crawl away.

But it waits,

confident,

oven-baked to glossy perfection,

Pueblo red, mud soft, brick strong.

The final rebirth.

I taste it sometimes:

Steady, like my feet

anchoring under

sun-filled maple trees.

The sweet ache of

acceptance,

a kiss on a mud-stained

cheek, a tight hug from the

friend who once slipped away

like water.

In these moments

at the well

of human dignity,

the mirage stiffens

into reality.

I ache for this

honey wine completion.

No more cracks, no more new clay,

Just enough.

The Bridge

I still pray for you

on long walks, and at night

sometimes when the world

is small and quiet,

or too big.

I pray your life will be rich

with God’s goodness,

sweet as your favorite

strawberry-rhubarb pie.

I pray that when you meet her,

you will be so happy.

Who knows, maybe

she will even show you

how to dance.

Funny now, how these

prayers are like little

gems of power

building a bridge, one drop

at a time for me to walk

my grief over,

and filling you with strength.

All these unspoken

colors illuminate the hope

that someday hello

will be woven with the fiber

of healed beginnings,

warming your hands

as much as mine.

Since our love crumbled

and drained out, these prayers—

this little, steady candle

remains.

It is enough.

Bookstore

You greet me like a fat tabby cat.

The door jingles and you’re at my side

nuzzling for attention, saying,

come out of the ugly drizzle;

here it is warm.

I wander down your aisles

where books crack and sigh

and open like daisy chain

crowns, each word a petal

in a garland to grace

those willing to listen.

These books smell like pine

trees, muffled walks in the snow,

cinnamon sticks and the first breath

of summer.     

These books have wandered

in pockets, under jackets in rainstorms,

on planes, between friends, lovers,

and enemies, held coffee mugs

and pencil marks, baked under

windowsills, and wrinkled

under tears.

So many journeys in one book,

in one aisle, in one bookstore,

in the world.

Cherry Blossoms (at the University of Washington)

petals flicker down--

thousands of winks

teased by the breeze.

frisbees, chiming

voices, children

in the grass, sneakers

on brick, on snow.

cameras flash

while

these snow faces

land so quietly—

thousands of beautiful deaths.

Moon Fishing

The city lights wink, and cars bob over bridges.

I perch on my boat and cast a line into your rippling

reflection. What would we do, moon, if you visited?

If you popped up with my fishing line, smooth as an

Oreo cookie. It would only be for one night, because

I know you’re busy up there. 

You could be a beautiful balloon bobbing over my

shoulder. We could stroll by all the children waiting

for moon dust magic, the children who sleep on cold

floors and hide in the back of classrooms. 

You could whisper in my ear about what heaven

looks like, if the view is any better from up there.

We could dispel that cheese myth too, I know you

don’t appreciate it. 

Then we could glide by restaurants where lovers

snooze, and light up the dark office corners where

fathers and mothers hide. 

I could pull that flag out of your ribcage. I love

my country, but you don’t belong to anyone. 

We could slow all the young people that hurry, hurry

on, who have forgotten they still live under you.

We could cheer up the elderly who need to look at

something new.

We could warm the hands of the homeless

whose nights are cold and long. 

We could tell this frantic world to hush, hush, hush.

We could do a lot of things, moon.

Seeds

(A new version of Reconcile)

Once, we planted lemon seeds by the sea.

Shoulders brushing, we loosened the fresh soil

in the pale morning light. Inside, the steam

from our cinnamon bread clouded

the window. But we only thought

of the salty air and the seeds,

 so cold and light in our palms.

We didn’t know then how bitterness

could grow to taste so sweet.

For months we still filled our cupboards

with jam jars and painted the sea together,

melting its sunsets into our canvas,

taming its lion waves in our frame.

But at night, locked in your warmth,

I thought of the buds outside, yellowing.

We sliced the first lemons, clean inside

as the sun at its birth. The first bite hurt,

so we covered them in sugar.

That’s when we saw our painting,

turned so still and sepia.

So we let our brushes rust.

Then it came, that storm vomit.

Our lips cracked, our tongues stung

you did, you are, how could you, I hate that you—

and our sea darkened to ashen purple.

 Rain screamed, shutters flew.

Our painting tilted, the jam jars rattled,

the roof unhinged.

The lemon trees stayed.

We stopped to breathe. I studied you,

your frame outlined in the blinking of a lamp.

I used to trace your soul.

You watched me too, me dripping and wheezing.

Your eyes softened.

We knew what to do.

We smashed them under our feet,

slicing and spraying their sour flesh.

Then we tossed them into the sea.

Reconcile

Here is the moment

when the words we’ve spun into stones,

thrown, hum like a wasp’s nest released

into our quiet canopy.

The fruit on our tree is rotting now.

We used to shelter there, one strong back

against storms, drinking its shade like wine.

Then, pebble small dissatisfactions came:

you are, you did, how could you, why would you,

I hate that you’ve twisted our love, it’s lust now,

it’s rusting our dreams.

The last wasp leaves. I see now, our vinegar tears

could make seeds for new trees or weeds.

Aren’t you tired? Our well is empty now.

We are both bleeding.

You once tread softly and needed no map.

Softly through the valleys and snow peaks in me,

the river beds and seas of soul behind my rib cage.

And I’ve forgotten you too,

how you are made of star breath and dust,

carved by God’s thumbs. I once filled a mast

with your miles, now I’m anchored at bay.

We must stop throwing stones.

Let us clean our wounds and plant a new tree.