first aid

pain,
my mom always said,
is the body's way
of telling me
that something's wrong.

but
I can tell her to put the icepack
back
in the fridge.

she can't see
my dull ache
that I keep for myself
to hum inside me like
kryptonite.
waiting.

I have a wrecking ball
close to my chest
where I can listen to the sound
of my bones
crumbling inside me
while my heart seeps
through the cracks
of a shallow grave,
defeated.

something is wrong,
my body is telling me,
but I can't mend it.
I listen to the low hum
of waiting.

a concession

you bugs.
you offensive, detestable things!

you repulsive
crop of aliens
that lurk in the
dark corners of
my cozy home.

your greasy black
shell slithers
atop numerous
spindly legs...
that I would like to rip off.

your eyes, worse yet,
are there two, six, or four,
that gleam at me,
plotting?

you vinyly crunchy
sado-masochism bondagey things.
goo.
yeah, I'm talking to you.

I watch you rub those legarms
together
in anticipation of our show down.
but we both know
that you will win.

you will sneakily slink
towards me on those
thorny legs, calculating.
and I will jerk backwards and jump
atop the nearest chair
until you take your
wriggling antenna
and skedaddle.

and yet, you...
you bugs...
are another
of God's diverse
(I still say ugly)
creatures.

I'll watch your
twitchy conspiring
from across the room

but I still can't bring myself to squash you.

generations of use

grandma's hands
have skin that is
tissue thin.
soft, like wax.
her veins are an oxidized green,
a busy road map of her life.
her nails are yellowed with age,
like an old news paper,
yet fortified
like strong will.
her palms are sewn with
deep-set riverbeds of good fortune,
and her fingertips swirl
gracefully,
yet whimsically;
a testament to her subtle humor.

She clasps my hand in hers
where I can admire
the time and beauty of her lived-in
hands.

The hands that mothered four children
that delicately formed matzo balls for her
hot soup.
That sewed my baby blanket as it fell apart,
and mastered massage.
The hands that folded quietly every morning
in somber meditation at sunrise.

These hands where mine were clasped
were well-loved.
We didn't earn them, but they were for us.

didn't get your text

lol
is for

la la la laugh out loud
when you're not around.
ha ha ha how funny,
clever, and witty!

lol
is for

la la la lost the energy to call you.
and fell asleep. oops.
ha ha ha have nothing more to say,
lol in the conversation.

lol
is for

la la la last time we spoke?
sorry, I've been busy.
ha ha ha heard your voicemail
did you need to talk?

lol
is for

la la la later we'll catch up
if I have the time

ha ha ha had something good
but dropped the call

who's lol-ing now?

home

i love this
crook
in your arm,
just so.

this spot
where i can rest my cheek
between your chest
and shoulder.

it is warm
and right
and when lie together,
jigsaw-perfect,
entwined as
a jungle of limbs,
i don't wish.

the world is far gone
and i sink
into this niche
not asking for it back.

encounters with strangers

as I am walking,
just walking,
a white jeep backs
quickly into my path.

dude! learn how to drive,
I scold the driver,
with whom I am now face
to face
save for the
dense glass window
between us.

a second flashes in his
iced eyes,
which meet mine.

he is young,
sixteenish maybe,
and stunned into silence.

the boy understands me
and I walk on to finish my day,
but he stays with me.

some nerve

today my father cradled me in his arms
for the first time
in eight years
and said,
I love you.

I love you,
and cried
into my shoulder.

tell me,
father,
where was your shoulder
when I needed to cry?

you left me
your baby girl
your daughter
for the cold plastic
and rubber
of your favorite remote control.

did you think of me
while you were plastered
to the couch,
drooling
on what we could have shared?

no.
you turned the volume up
or changed the channel.
you flopped over,
and finished your slumber.
while I screamed your name
for eight years.

this feels
to me
a bit like remote control.