Saying Goodbye To Home

I lived in objects until they became voices
in the corners of every wall, and we woke
to understand that memories could contour
without letting go, indispensable partners in life,
mocks us in physical matter, until the humbleness unravels
at the sound of footsteps passing by.

I thought I was the only one to carry these babies
that space deserved no credit,
the warmth of a given setting was a consequence
of a secondary movement,
that feet grew through the floors in given years
the alignment of faces and windows,
smiles in how we counted growth, measuring sunshine,
your youthful beads of hair took hours to
be forgotten, this floor called to you to
crawl, this ceiling called to you to stand
my body was nothing when the door called
to you to run, to find a place behind my eyes
where you could whisper dreams, sleep
and wake to the kindness of morning light.

It lived inside, matter, where people grow into
bodies of flesh, thoughts and years to piece together
stories, that you knew me here and we talked of other places
never wanting to leave the one we knew.


The Mirror

for my son, age 7

Growing into himself too quickly
he questions the composition of his face
positions his eyes slightly closer together
as if an acute pose will make the
mirror aware of his inevitable manhood

tight with time, he is a builder, toppling
his hair, climbing it again with minded hands
he is arched as if running a bridge,
elevated in his position
as the undefeated ruler of himself.

I have encountered my only enemy,
I realize, a mirror that speaks to him
in futurist illusions of adulthood,
wherein lies of glorious independence
speak in imaginary tongue, and I
am the voice of unheard truth:

“romantic possibilities are not on the other side
of your reflection, know the blessing of your
present reality and speak to it as if it loves you
more than you can love yourself.”

The dark is my welcome time now
your original mirror, your arms tight
have you forgotten yourself?
simple presence with original source
oh, what little you know of life
I will teach you everything.

The rational begets the spiritual

I rely on you for the names
of the teachers, the regenerated pictures
that took me time to digest and paint the essence of my own mind.

I rely on you for the names of the men and their children who
you feel relieved do not belong to me, but this is never said—
for we are history, you are silence
with opinion not present when it gives life to ghosts,
a brief mention among what I have loved.

You live, father, only when you posture trivia,
list politics, talk dates as if they were absent from experience,
side by side, once again, we are concepts
adjacent to feelings that do not intersect.

Together we pray for nothing because
you are not party to the illusion of wolves.
This world is so ripe (and subsequently spoiled)
with human beings on subscribed pathways
situated by guides, whitewashed boards
the boundaries of schedules and approved destinations.

Our ancestry as it becomes hard to distinguish—
will we be able to find each other in familiar eyes?
The animals. The man will find his way home
among the voices of walls and imaginary children
a place where no one but you will be listening.

Sex Dreams about Julio Iglesias

She ate nothing without remembering
the presence of her mouth and the
absence of sad stories, why everything
should be known as it should be heard         with laughter.
A meditation on the past was letting it rise
like fire to the mind, howling with the coyotes, a ramble
naked on the porch, the night bringing silence
so reliable                  the fall of the sun, the presence of the crescent moon.
Only stars are bodies too far to embody possibilities
silhouettes multiplying to silence other voices
to wilt the mind this water is not enough
for my cheeks to bare, and your dreams no longer
rally in song                  another sex dream, I know, the same one
from the night before in a slightly different form.
We pass on habits, the women of my family
seeping moments into dreams, singing songs
of understanding in bellows of joke and the cackles
only wild animals dare to match. Were you unable to find words
in your last days? We remember so many from before.


I have pollinated berries
and considered you a simple place
rest, an oasis of shade, patience
and its intricacies founded in silence,
rampant in floundered promises.
the grape arbor, a possession of
stories, ideas as stoic as tendrils, wishful
thinking, genuine hope, the composition
of character, inherent in traits. we weave choices,
she finds decades, the quiet whispers
of intertwined lust, wrapping somewhat
stubborn advice around the sun.
she sows stories, back and again
under the gray areas of shade,
the trellis was open, the memories were fresh,
once the birth of a new story never told.
together we weave backwards, plant the child
pollinate the gray and rest below the sun
weave tales through the stubborn threads of our hairs.

Swollen Youth

She became nothing after that
just dead weight,
the body of glances
and what she saw when she said his name.
It was no ghost, no Casper, no curtain
covered apparition in light weight sway
above candlelight, suspended in mid air.
It was heavy, the drooping visitor, the sag
under her eyelids, the slow drag under her feet.
In possession, this life she resurrected in her own body,
laying with him,
sweating him under tight curls,
wet with him next to her,
drowning for years in him,
she looked past me.
I was not the first.
She would have taken it for him,
snorted her own lines to bring him back to life,
stumbled him past his swollen youth,
muttered his name a thousand times so I could see him again
but I never did. I only hear him tell me—
I will not let you take this road.
Do you understand me declaring my death?
Yours will come later so she can die before you.

The Guilt of Peaches

I felt today that I take
for granted what reappears
in tradition
in appeasement
in the fruit fields on the opening of August
in succulent flavor
in the orange, translucent light (after a bite)
these are things that live
again and again
they are rebirth
death, they are never
in stomach parting
the snack for a scavenger of night
a pit left behind for the subtle hope of new growth
we come in the form of return
we in growth, my children from the peach
the size of trees
look at me, certainly not a new tree
I walk away for the next picking.