home

i’ve seen seventeen houses
and you’ve seen just twelve
each time for you seems to get harder
as i grow excited,
your face hangs down after each one
as life becomes something
you didn’t want it to be,
not quite expecting
to build any sort of life with me

i stand in each kitchen trying to picture
us cooking side by side
the record player spinning
as you take my hand
back and forth we’re swaying
a slow, middle school kind of dance
not trying to follow the beat
of Love and Happiness

and i walk through each living room
looking for the fireplace we both want
hoping for
that perfectly comfortable couch
and cuddling close under blankets
the cat and dog sleeping nearby
the calming sound of logs crackling
and the feeling of your warmth
your body pressed gently against mine

i look for a sign of the future
what life could be in each home
if this is what would make us happy
or if this is where we move on

Empathy is Easy

i was bullied for being an ally
he said
my student
and he stared at me
as we both tried not to cry
hoping he wasn’t looking to me for strength
maybe just knowing he couldn’t look at his mom
already crying
and i realized
me too,
at the lunch table
i told him later with a hug
after we all cried
and laughed about crying

do you doodle?
i do doodle.

a cry for
help
no answer

a happy poem

try to write a poem

that’s not sad

she said

well, here it is

did this make you happy, glad

did you laugh

3 days off

you’re supposed to cherish these days

make something of them

savor the freedom

go somewhere special

have a little fun

but all you do is stay home alone watching

television shows about serial killers

and blood and death and breakups and tears

and your 3 days is ending and tomorrow you go back to work

supposed to be refreshed and everyone will ask you how it was

and you’ll lie

and say it was good

mother

when my mother calls

she starts with a series of questions

she asks in succession

i wait for the last one asked

and that’s the one i answer

she calls on sundays

sometimes she texts instead

a long list of questions

How are you?

Do anything this weekend?

Got any plans?

How’s the dog?

How’s work?

and i choose which ones to answer after

staring at the list for longer than i should need to

even responding to my mother’s weekly text is too much for me

but it’s better than when she calls

because she knows my voice too well

and the questions quickly change to

Are you okay?

What’s wrong?

Are you sick?

Did something happen?

and if i don’t answer just right

i hear my mom turn into a volunteer at the suicide hotline

and she says all the things you’re supposed to say so that
someone feels loved and cared for

the words catch in your throat
and you can’t seem to say the things you need to say
once you say them that’s it
and you can’t take the words back
no matter how bad they feel or how wrong they came out
and all you can manage to get out is that it won’t be pleasant
he tells you in his neighbor’s Guyanese accent that life can’t always be a bowl of cherries
and so you say nothing

i had food poisoning
and it’s hard to recover
nearly two months later
nothing feels right
the tightness in my stomach
matches the tightness in my heart
and ever so often
it beats so fast
i think maybe
it’s my time to go
i put my hand on my chest
as they all keep talking
no one noticing
despite how badly i’m hiding
this thumping
throbbing
pain

Six words
to show
my pain
Eleven
to show
my tears

Things

he left a fancy thing
expensive thing
resting on the bookshelf
shining white and clean
atop thirty years of dust

and bodies passed through that room
each hour, a new batch
then more
other shiny, expensive, fancy things
left on that same spot
often forgot

a boy found the thing and knew it’s value
but without hesitation the boy turned it in
to the teacher
not sure he could trust the teacher
to hold the shiny, expensive, fancy thing safe

and moments after he ran into the room
back to the spot on the bookshelf
now bare
his heart in his throat

until the boy told him
the teacher has your shiny, expensive, fancy thing
and the relief sank to his feet
as he hugged the boy
and the teacher smiled with hope

i showed them my art
and
they said
oh wow
like
my creativity was a surprise
and
it’s an imperfect masterpiece
and
it’s a compliment
because
nothing is ever perfect

i forgot
to remember
some things
like how
to exist