1. They told me with their hands
the first man I loved used his hands to pull down
my panties without asking
I had loved him without question
his carpenter hands
rough against my abdomen
my five-year-old heart was
2. They told me with their mouths
the second man I loved used his mouth
—when I gave him my free forward,
my unrelenting, my wide-open
when his empty was filled
with the red vacuum of my sex
he mouthed “I still love her”
and the her of me was vacated
3. They told me with their silence
the third man I loved used his tornadoed
soul against my earth-bed body for landing
then he pulled his sleeve up to his wrist
and wiped my name from his eyes,
rubbed my wetness from his now-landed
—took his relit fire and left
my heart, soot-thin
First published in work to a calm.
Nominated for a Push Cart Prize.
Though I wasn’t really allowed to listen to secular music as a child, somehow the Beatles were a frequent exception. It wasn’t actually until high school that I intentionally discovered them for myself. It was like I got initiated into some obvious club. Because so many of their songs existed individually, picking my favorite album feels insincere. I loved each era of the Beatles separately. Abbey Road is as good as any other, really, since their music exists in their own category. It wasn’t that they were the best singers, best musicians, or the sexiest guys. They were smart, finding the right amount of all the things at the right time in history.
The last time was unremarkable.
The last time with him was ordinary
in its duration, its position, its intensity.
That is to say it was one more time before
he was off to work. One more time being
that it was the second time that morning.
The first-time being everything the last
should have been. The first time that morning
was consumed starvation. Being that he made
my body forget gravity. The first-time being laid
gasping off the side of the mattress.
It was the culmination of months abandoning.
The synchronicity of his chest against my shoulder
blades. The last time he set me alter high
and drowning in his sweat. The last time he’d fuck
anyone else on that mattress. He left me in love
with college boy sheets and summer fans
in November. The last time was a muted sigh.
The first time being crescendo. Arms tangled
in thighs. He refused to have me exhale
on his behalf. Being that he made my body
forget about gravity.
First published in work to a calm.
Before Bjork was known for being Bjork, she was a co-singer for the band The Sugarcubes. Even then, she stood out as what made the band worth listening to. For me, the songs were all little bazaar delights. Bjork has a way of making dissonance feel like a hug. Birthday felt like the songs I was warned about, seductive, entrancing, and lots of twisted. In 1989, I got to see them live at what was once called Irvine Meadows. They opened up for PIL and New Order. It was the very first big name concert I ever saw.
for not being
for not laughing
at all your jokes
and if I put my hand
on your shoulder
it will not be an invitation
if my fingers linger
which they will not
you will not have the rights to me
to my round parts
to my fullness
against your bare bones
I will not apologize
for not being
and fist clenched
my gaze always at the door
on the clock
for you to learn
my name is not prey
First published in Al-Kemia Poetica.
Long before the internet, the way we often discovered music was word of mouth. Like so much of my music obsessions, Cat Stevens was recommended by a guy I had a crush on. Now my life story could not be told without including his music. He felt like the father figure I never had. Whatever people felt about his personal life choices, his songs were a beautiful masculinity that the world is in desperate need of today. All his songs were stories of people and places I wanted to know. I spent years finding as many of his albums as I could on record. A lot of music loses its relevance over time, but Cat Stevens music is, for me, beyond time.
When I dance for you and our knees brush at the bar, we begin to forget. The more I think about the space inside your coat, the more you learn the names of my favorite drinks, we stop saying them. Words like wife. Words like marriage. We become teenage-nervous where mouths cannot form words like separation. All I know is giggle and heart-dotted-i’s. We are back at the edge of unknowing. Where our grownup selves are strangers we might not want to meet. You use the word awkward when I give you a book on a poet’s divorce. You are a teenaged father all over again. Except your children are leaving now, one-by-one. You regress a decade for each one. If I am fifteen and you are seventeen, sitting in my living room listening to records, maybe we also forget the word husband. You are just a boy with grown man scars. I am only a girl biting my nails, chewing at the cuticles, wishing that boy would lean down and kiss me, but fearing. Fearing if he does, it means we need more words for you and me. And if you hold my hand, are we steady? If I wear your coat wrapped around me in the dark, what will be a word for that?
First published in Whiskey Fish Review.
I’m excited to have my first feature in almost 6 months. Friday, April 19th at 7 pm.
This is the 3rd night of the 2019 edition of this reading series, which happens (usually) every first Friday of the month at Viento y Agua Coffee House,4007 E. 4th St. in Long Beach. I’ll be joined by Alexandria Espinoza and more TBA. As always, the first 10 minutes will be an Open Mic, and then there will be our featured readers as well as with your host, Alan Passman for a little Q&A.
I remembered a friend giving me a copy of Scatered Few’s demo tape some time in 1990 or so. While I was delving into the world of Christian alternative music, I was craving music that sang to the dark spaces in my heart. Then came Sin disease. It was like nothing I had heard before in any music realm. Their music was piercing, spastic, intense, twisty, and smart. Then, I saw them play live. I feel lucky to have lived in the time and place I did. I don’t know how many times I got to see them play, but they were never imitated.
Before he left, she offered a box of light
a spectrum of color against his black;
red scraped from her pulsing veins
orange plucked from her sunset sky
yellow combed out from her morning hair
green cut from the edge of her irises
blue pulled from the song in her ears
indigo peeled from her darkest night
and violet picked from her truest words.
She tied them with her blind-heart kisses
and let him steal her rainbowed sky.
Let him pour them out into his grays—
let him remember her only in this way.
First published in The Bastille.