Your glass is always half empty, whiskey the color of your eyes when you are aroused. I shut my eyes and fixate on the whir of the overhead fan. When you reach for me I turn away, practicing my out of body art, I look down from above until my eyes close. Later we share a hand rolled cigarette, silently watch the curls rise and rip apart in the blades. Your soft eyes ensnare me, expose my liability. It is so easy to distract you, pulling back the sheets we laugh, make love and pull away. Your eyes are the sparkle of stardust, a boy at the top of a Ferris wheel. I swear to not meet again but my heart is a red sports car racing along a razor’s edge.
art by Fabian Perez
Waiting for you became a ritual,
listening for the sound of your footsteps
in the pounding rain.
The taste of salt still remains
upon my lips where you left it
and in dreams you are evoked
by the wings of seabirds where I have
pressed our memory.
At daybreak the tide retreats without
leaving you at my shore and it is
there I accept loss.
At the hollow of my throat I have etched
your name somehow declaring us sacred.
In memory – Father’s Day 2019
His mother named him Carlos, such a strange name for a Welshman. Perhaps she loved Spain.
Summers heavy cloak hung over fields of Goldenrod, their long limbs reaching out to mesh with spiky leaves that sheltered bundles of marmalade florets.Their invasion of the meadow met with merciless machetes that hacked through the unwelcome invaders who hadn’t the courtesy to extend a pleasant fragrance.
The trail led to an arbor by a trickling brook. Nestled in a stand of trees a precarious trellis bowed heavy with never ending appendages that wound and wove through dense clusters of bulbous translucent nipples clinging tenaciously to their host.
The scent of peppery earth stung the nostrils and attracted white tail deer that ravaged the vines of their treasure. The old man once snaked a garden hose through the lattice to frighten them, a guise that worked only to astonish lovers lingering at fertile ground, a sacred rendezvous.
Soon the clammy dragons of summer breathed their fiery breath and the skin of the luminous fruit burst with the sweetest nectar and they were declared ripe and ready to harvest and process by a secret recipe known only to the old man and his son. Ruptured with a pestle and filtered, the grapes were transformed and stored in Bell jars, sweet and crisp, underdeveloped, but heady and pleasant.
Rarely did my father materialize from his travels once I had been delivered for the summer yet somehow the harvesting of the grapes invoked his presence like a lark at dawn.
I’ve unfolded us like origami
Ripped apart our borders
Dissected the shadowed corners
of secrets, forced them into
the light to mourn like the hollow
bones of birds,
I have renamed us where every
memory is not an ache beneath my ribs
and every thought is not an assault on the dead.
My heart is the flush of peony
the color of healing scars.