I brought home some babies, little green ones;
biked down Fort Hamilton, chose them carefully
and lovingly packed them home. My babies
are wee ones- chartreuse, striated forest and jade,
spectacular, succulent, reaching pointy fingers
to the sky and already showing tiny teeth.
They don’t poop or cry, but that’s okay.
Our hopes are high, in the sunny window sill
they’ll grow and make themselves at home.
8 a.m. the burner ignites under the tea kettle. I locate
the white tea cup for the day, then shuffle through boxes
of teas, as I consider my liver, my energy level, toxins
or mineral stores. I ask my belly what feels right.
Tulsi, turmeric, dandelion root, nettle leaf?
In winter, it’s spices, warmth and comfort. Summer,
hibiscus, rose and honey. Sometimes, I need
licorice, chamomile, lavender, gentle.
Regardless the type, 8 a.m. the burner ignites under
the tea kettle.
an orphan’s grief, obsidian
the force of will, obsidian
the seed of my heart, obsidian
cool and sharp, obsidian
bitter still, obsidian
the child’s thief, obsidian
(obsidian, from You Bring out the Mexican In Me by Sandra Cisneros)
Now I know
the reason why
I came to stay
in this place.
One easy look
at the open sky,
so clean and blue,
such perfect space;
With colors and shapes
that calm my mind
my restless heart.
I don’t know how
for all this time
we could ever
have been apart.
The sour acid of nerves hovers at the back of my tongue,
it rises with the deep nagging, the tiny alarm bells
that well up, ringing louder and louder until that cerebral
aspect chimes and I remember-
I taste the proof of my fear, feel the dark pit
of my stomach turn and quiver. But fear is only the crest of the wave,
the full churning body is power and the soul’s love.
The artist’s burden comes into full view, again-
I must create!
flies through space and time to show
Saturn’s rings in their glory.
I was surprised at first,
and frustrated, at how narrow
you are. Long and narrow. Stark white,
and so narrow. I felt cheated at the rent
I would pay to sleep in you, and what else?
Hang out? Read? Not likely…
Except that one adapts, and I brought
in to you a vintage brass bed,
turned it this way and that,
settled it under the window where the moon
can wink at me. And then a solid wood
dresser made in Tennessee, found on craiglist
in the Bronx, with a vanity mirror to match.
My bed seems far away when I’m at your door.
I hoped the white walls and mirror would throw
around the illusion of space. I hammered nails
and drilled screws to make you mine.
I’ve filled you to the brim with clothes,
jewelry and bins to nonchalantly store
my stuff. I get mad at you for not being
bigger, and then I humbly bail you out
like a boat set to capsize. Sorry.
You are my space, all mine. You are where the rain
sings me to sleep. You house my art. You carry
my tears, my songs, my stacks of journals,
my longings and night time scribblings, and of course,
my dreams, you are where I dream. I promise to
spend more time with you. Love you, E