mono no aware x late spring

the vase sits in my peripheral,

an opaque mirror 

reflecting back a ceramic stare,

an illusion of stillness

smoothed by the macroscopic lens

under the microscope 

each grain of sand 

and matted mineral

composing the silt

shifts and slides with stealth,

invisible to my blind eye

melancholia moves my mood

down the hips of the vase

where her lover’s hands 

once caressed her clay 

and imprinted the memory of movement

with the first steps of an eternal dance 

father’s snore bubbles up

to the surface of my awareness 

in synch with the shadows 

of bamboo shoots swaying

past the symmetry of the window pane,

and the moment is gone

in the transition 

between transience 

i catch the vase glaring at me

with a timeless wisdom

of what it means to be left behind 

by the hands that shaped you

poppies

i grieve in circles 

in tight coiled spirals

that once sprouted from her scalp

before the chemo

ripped at each follicle 

like a child unknowingly yanking

the roots of earth’s

most precious flower

she loved poppies 

and lived like one too 

vibrantly blooming under the 

most violent conditions,

shining while the sun’s 

scorching heat beat down.

her petals only opened wider

to welcome the wind’s hush

she embraced life with a scarlet tint

opium perfumed hope

that painted her reality

hot hues of a sleeping sunset.

her eyes the exact amber of dawn, 

blinking above the horizon 

when life is understood

as unfair and cruel

only to coexist with colors

as bright as her own

the sun sets again

i find myself in an abyss

absent of her radiant light 

the cycle resets 

i grieve in circles

le châtelier

sits in his chair 

rocking back and forth 

toward equilibrium 

in a state of stress 

attempting stillness 

all he can do is shift

to counter the motion

reversing himself

drumming his heels

to push himself forward

only to rock back

with increasing pressure

he sinks into his seat

the more he concentrates 

the faster he flings forward

growing hot with effort

he falls flat to the floor

the chair left rocking

remembering his motion

as if nothing is missing

at last he is still

on the floor’s cool surface

the chair’s teetering slows

to a subtle sway 

softened by his imprint

ángelos

dont shoot the messenger

or shred up your taxes

the truth still lives

the debt is still owed 

after all the evidence is burned 

churned to ashes

the smell of rotting skin

and paper thin scraps

linger in the air 

like the shame you refuse 

to claim as your own

spirals in the wind 

whispering the truth 

you are not willing to name

the child of your sins

immaculately conceived

breathes despite honesty

she lies in your womb

feeding upon your secrets

as it grows harder to hide

the bulging nature of truth

pregnant with pride

until betrayal shows

what the body knows

porcelain

i lost my grip in the shower and slipped

banged my brow against the porcelain, 

and i woke up backwards

covered in filth 

i slathered mint paste 

across the blades of my razor

smiled big and brushed in circles

squeaky clean scratches

gums scrubbed to raw pink

swish and gargle red spit

i scrubbed my thighs smooth with 

toothbrush bristles

until hairless

skin stung in shower steam

reborn as an open wound

i crawl out of the tub

and shake off my lament

like a wet dog 

sopping, i towel off 

with toilet paper 

sticking to my skin

in damp, translucent petals

and for a second i am beautiful

the mirror melts under my palm

bruise blooming purple

tiles staying white

my reflection leans forward

covered in clean

tap tap tap

tap tap tap

the glass you trapped me in

snaps and shatters

i hear chatter 

of the mess i made

while i am left digging

shards out of my wrists 

snap snap snap

everything changes 

the instant you wake up

the fog clears

from the mind's mirror

the resin of memory 

melts into sticky truth   

clap clap clap

it’s time to wash 

my bloodied wrists

and face the consequences

of my neighbor’s fists

release resentment 

and allow time to clot

wrap wrap wrap

apply pressure until tender

remember how skin

heals faster with rest 

press premature pink

until it no longer hurts to

tap tap tap

ascetic strain

ascetic strain 

taught me to self-shrink

beyond the thin aesthetic.

to think in absence 

and perceive in presence.

suffocating strings

wound from shame, 

began to fray

the moment i left home

and forgot my name.

i collect calluses 

on this path of pain.

they stiffen my soul

and erode my fingerprints,

polishing my eyes to witness.

etched into my tender flesh 

are truths embodied.

where my ribs peek shyly

and confidently speak 

in the paradox of silence.

to you i shrink,

disappear into skin

and spiral within delusion.

beyond the illusion

of the mind’s control

i find freedom in nothing

where i exist in everything.

spine

you love my back 

but don’t know what it carries

how my spinal cord 

contorts into alignment 

for the convenience of others 

built to convince them

my head rests on solid shoulders.

i stand tall

shoulders back, 

slouch no more.

scolded to scoliosis 

tailbone arched to please

each spinal peak

rises like a wave

then breaks

against freckled skin.

i place my pain in ink

along this rocky mountain chain.

behind my eyes

each needle finds a nerve

and teaches it to curve 

until even sensation

is fried to silence.

double dagger ‡

stabs dirt atop the mountain’s peak

slashed into something transient 

an untraceable intermediate 

caught in transition 

gibbs attempts to gather

the activation energy 

required to scale such heights

to claim the blade 

dug into the intangible

structure collapses on the climb 

bonds broken between brothers

release his futile grip   

with each slip he returns lower 

to ground state 

only when his tears

incite the hydrolysis of his heart

does the incline flatten,

exposing the neck of the blade

piercing the horizon.

in futile fists he grips

the sleek serrations of the dagger 

blood blooms from the webs 

of his ignorant flesh

until he releases, only to notice

he does not recognize his reflection

irreversibly transformed 

into a product of his own curiosity 

catalyzed by the conquistador’s desire

to hold in a fist

what only exists unheld ‡

romantic thief

my first breath i imagine a big bang

when life ignites, it shifts form

she wakes quick, starving for oxygen

pressed to my mouth like a prayer i rehearsed

before i knew what i believed

i am now a mother breathing for two

smoke crawls into my eye

i russian twist my cigarette from side to side

to coax her mischievous path 

she spirals like a small nebula

fluid in the wind

she ascends to heavens as a final offering

a sacrifice to remain formless and free 

she leaves my lips 

in pulses my diaphragm can’t stop

impossible to pocket in my ribcage

her warmth washes the walls of my throat

while tickling my nasal canal

before she pulls away 

leaving the ashy aftertaste of freedom on my tongue 

her dormant body lies stiff in lined sticks

claustrophobic in a commercial box

i am an addict 

but nevertheless a romantic 

whose dying wish is to set her free

to take in her poison

and still call it mercy

i bite

I bite at the hand that feeds me 

gnaw at its knuckles 

until I am satisfied by the sound 

of snapping carrots 

I would rather starve 

than digest the disgust of man 

I spit out each nail

and whittle its meat from my teeth

my tongue remembers the indents

of its naked palm 

reading each engravement 

with a tender lick  

picking apart its false prophecy 

I wipe my lips 

and massage my mandibles  

still chewing permission

the metallic aftertaste of blood 

pools beneath my tongue

And I cant tell if its mine

Or the price of obedient love

thread

I spent all night sweating

against silk sheets

made to comfort skin

only to suffocate beneath

their million-thread count

thinking of you

hours of anguish spent 

rummaging the closet 

behind my anxious eyes

I select which shoes make me tall enough

to pretend I’m the one judging

I dress to look down on you

a costume of altitude,

to spite the fact that 

I am too sterile to persuade into passion

too skeptical to believe 

the lyrics behind your lust 

I sleep for a second 

only to wake up thrashing 

in a cold coat of dew 

collecting on the hairs of my skin

like blades of grass before dawn

weeping for the day your face escapes the glass

I lie naked atop of my bed 

legs spread apart the way you imagine me

running my nails down my thighs

until i draw blood warm enough 

to lull me back to sleep

I wake to a severed string

our thread gone quiet

silk sheets unwound into iridescent fiber

decorating my bed like confetti

to celebrate yet another day

spent mourning your absence

shameful daughter

perhaps I am not as good of a daughter

as I am a scientist.

or perhaps it is exactly because I am skeptical

that I make a shameful daughter.

I speak above my father

calmly,

without raising my voice.

his aggression echoes between my ears,

though they have adapted

to no longer absorb the dissonance.

I point out abnormalities

that are collectively silenced,

falsified by faith in the family name.

I perceive patterns

that nauseate their reality into delusion,

a distortion in data

that no trendline can linearize into meaning.

I make notes in my diary

like a lab notebook,

to record observations

in order to make sense of the world around me.

like Galileo,

I would rather be grounded in truth

than believed.

perhaps being a shameful daughter

is what molded me

into a devout scientist

one guided by intuition

rather than the normative,

who identifies biases

and rejects familiar comfort,

who digs into the cyclical nature of generations

to evolve through awareness.

I can decorate my family name

with prefixes deserving of praise,

though no amount of education

can dissolve the discomfort

I carry to the dinner table.

so I set it down between the plates
like a small, persistent lantern,
trusting that someone after me
will eat in its light
and call that inheritance.

seppuku

silly caucasian girl likes to play with samurai swords

swinging around words

that were never passed down,

but cultivated through neglect

how deep must my blade cut

in your honor

before my shoulders are knighted

with worthiness in your eyes?

i went rogue the moment

my feet chose peace

over the path assigned to me.

they called it disgrace

a village’s shame inked between my brows,

a birthright burned into obedience.

must i give you a clean death?

would it please you

to watch a ritual suicide

all ceremony, no redemption

silenced by duty,

made holy by blood?

i am still full of fight and wonder,

not so easily silenced

by command or capture

or the quiet demand

to leave this world gracefully.

the steel of my blade catches the sweat

on my cheekbones,

sharp light tracing defiance

as the color drains from my face.

it is then

that i feel most woman.

margins

the mathematician writes poetry in his margins

to a lover he has never quite grasped.

he speaks to her in Greek symbols,

metaphors that communicate more

movement than they can compute

each curve a whisper,

each proof a confession

of what logic can’t hold.

he feels their dance

down to the molecule

a symmetry of motion and want.

he braids her dimensions

of time and space,

holds each of her hairs to the light,

studying the fabric

that weaves all reality into one.

each thread shines

derived from stardust

and darkness.

he attempts to trace her outline in smeared ink

still she remains

a black hole in his mind,

a scribble in the margins of his page,

a vacuum that evades containment.

something so soft,

so fluid,

so unwilling to be solved,

bound by rules,

still she shimmers with exceptions.

the walk home

i need to leave
to breathe, or maybe just escape.
a single car drove us here
there is only one house to go back to.
i am suffocating in my own blood.

it’s a five-mile walk home from the restaurant,
but i attempt freedom.
my hip flexors ache by mile three.
the rain curls my flat-ironed hair
and nips at my exposed ankles
while mud cakes the sides of my sneakers.

i walk past foreign familiarities.
downtown lights glow in the wind
like fireflies my naïve hands once
yearned to grasp

something warm
to call my own.
my face stays buried in my sweater
while muscle memory carries me
through the mist.

my phone is dying,
blinking and buzzing with consequences,
but i keep playing the first
Arctic Monkeys album on repeat,
thinking how my youngest
sister listens to music i used to.

i turn the doorknob.
the warmth of the kitchen
stings my frozen fingers,
thaws the tip of my nose.
and i will keep running back
into that burning building
for as long as she must suffocate too.

woman or wolf

is it better to speak or to die?

the boy who cried wolf

lied

until death

lies still

the girl who tried

truth

denied in court 

tried still 

fang indents choke 

her neck, wrists crosshatched

by claws 

she dare not reveal

her phantom pain 

invisible under oath

stigmata seep 

through white sleeves

bleeding down each button 

woman or wolf

the judge squints

while the courtroom constricts around her

red-handed in defense

rejected by justice

truth dies with her 

immunity

my mind shouts sabotage 

SHAVE YOUR HEAD

PIERCE YOUR NIPPLES

TATTOO YOUR HANDS

while my body whispers mutiny

feel, forgive and release

to protect these tortured lands 

she etches the manifesto
between my ears and behind my eyes

the pain you resist persists

in my dreams i brush my fingers

against her braille and repent

grant me rest

free my conscious breath 

only to wake up blind 

bound by the mind’s mouthless voice

AVOID

  DISTRACT

       DESTROY

she pounds on my skull in morse code

deafening dits and dahs until i answer the door

only unconditional love will set you free 

i roll my eyes back into their sockets

pocketing the last of my strength to twist the knob

light spills through the hinges

not blinding, not burning

only a steady dawn 

there is no rush to evolution

yet i feel the revolution rising

with each quiet breath

bechdell test

1. the work must feature at least two women, 

2. these two women must talk to each other, and 

3. their conversation must be about something other than a man

my sisters help me slip into my second skin

zip up my suit, and offer me breath 

through a sandy tube i grip between my teeth

my gills thrash and gasp for air 

“fight the discomfort and evolve” 

they sing like a lullaby

sirens lure me into the water,

gifting my toes a temporary tail,

fins that carry my buoyant body

into the ocean’s swaying womb

i  stare into the salty unknown

Atlantis thrives under this inverted sky,

city lights shimmering in garibaldi scales,

lost treasure lurks beneath an empire of sand.

graceful hands guide me through aquatic gardens

knuckles interlaced, we swim through a shared dream

they point toward iridescent flashes 

and propel me across the liquid mirror 

under the shifting of sand 

an ancient shell floats from the surface 

a mossy angel ascends into heaven

to remind us of our mortal lungs  

she radiates wisdom in ripples across the glass sky  

before politely declaring her decent

down into the depths of darkness 

where her secrets remain disguised 

her whisper bubbles up above her shadow

air saturated with her secrets

rises to the surface 

and evaporates into our open ears

“our voices echo longer than our lungs endure”

detangling

clutching only hair

i pull blonde from my brush 

gold threads wound round each bristle

until whisked away 

from the paddle like cotton candy 

i roll you between my fingers 

where the webs of my hands

once held your hair 

strands so silky and elusive 

they slip through the gaps of my grasp

the scent of coconut milk lingers

shampoo i once scrubbed into your scalp

now i only wash for one

while i reminisce about the smoothness

of your wet skin and soapy smile

and i never liked blondes

or dated girls before 

but i would wear a wig of her hair

as a helmet to protect my brain

from losing any more of her

at night i dream in tangles

each strand a thread back to her

my hands grip like bloodied rope

i wake with fists closed

clutching only air