[[laying to rest]][[i]] see [[you]] in the [[mirror]]the young woman
beneath the roof,
broken and curbed
like a wounded bird
picked at her own feathers
until they read [[omens]]
from her—a tragic
[[suffering personified]]
for the whole neighborhood
to witness.look at this body:
shudders in the spinning
of pain and purity,
viscerally [[purging]]
itself of the emotions
stirring up its brokenness--i remember a day when you were eleven years old,
and you had been making mistakes all morning, then spilled your plate
of microwaved spaghetti all over the new hardwood floors--
and [[mama]] yelled, "you're a nightmare today!"
and you ran up the stairs and got into the bathtub and cried.
"you shouldn't feel that way"/ a thing they often say/ when you are spiraling/ in the depths of your anxiety/you submerge/ further/ [[down]]/ each day.
yesterday/ you did everything/ you were supposed to do/ under a guise/ of silent acceptance/ while the teeth of your depression/ sank into your body/ and stunned/ any liveliness/ gasping inside you/ muffled joys/ became [[ghost-quiet]].
when a heart is broken/ it isn't just the heart/ but the mind and body/ all at once.
"small face/ fit inside of my hands/ i am a life boat/ & i can carry you/ your eyes become wet/ because sometimes fathers leave/ & mothers are angry/ & the car is moving/ in thickening silence/ from the heat of a moment/ & swift regret/ your face crumples/ like a piece of paper/ I HATE MY MOM/ scrawled across/ & she found it/ you say nothing/ wordless mothers are the most tired/ & the most wounded/ you wrap your arms around her legs/ i'm sorry/ dripping words/ into her belly/ home-sick/ small face/ wrapped in her/ warm hands/ small face/ i recognize/ but feel so far from/i haven't hugged/ my mother's legs/ in over two decades/ i am sick/ & i miss home."
the intoxication of [[hate]]
and [[love]] all at once,
strung by weeping gasps;
watch as this body [[ebbs]]
and [[flows]] in waves of self-
soothing and riptides
of un-control and sinking...
i hate to be alone
i look up
to the sky to your face
& feel nothing
your hands
take mine & kiss my palms
trace the spots
on my face
along every scar
in a [[ritual]] a [[religion]]
of love we created
& your voice & arms & tongue
psalms
i study them rigorously
i cite them in the mirror
i consume your love
but cannot for the life of me
find any meaning life has left/ this quiet bed/ and all that remain/ are the traces/ of your warm body.yet, i no longer wake up/ to see your body/ beside me.your face/ frozen/ in the beautifully odd/ expressions/ the springy lines beneath your eyes/ mouth, agape/ a sweet, aged/ musk/ drifting over my nose/ in intervals/ that align/ with your breathing/ your rising/ and falling/ stomach/ the low, robust hums/ that come from your throat/ your gently twitching/ hands/ that bring flesh and blood/ to the things you dream/ i was a witness to it all/ back then/ now, i study a lifeless bed/ still/ without/ you/ and me. i am someone
who believes in saints
& fools
just because
they are all
revered in some way,
an appealing
way to be remembered—
even infamously.
the same frozen stare
& hollow eyes
you are a haunted
thing [[living]] inside me.
your memories are films
Unfinished, but still Art
reanimated in my mind
as i [[reach for a knife]].
i want to cut [[red apples]],
your favorite if i recall.
slicing into cold, ripe
flesh feels less morbid
& more refined
[[each time i hear the chop]]
of the blade against
the cutting board.
i miss the day
you brought me chamomile
tea & chopped apples
& watched scrubs
with me until we
accepted silence
as [[forgiveness]].
my hands scrub/ away/ the contents/ needed/ to be clean/ until everything/ [[is gone]]/ i place the cutting board/ among other/ lived-with things/ to dry/ in the window light/ before turning/ to gather/ the crushed/ translucent/ halved lemons/ and the miscellaneous ends/ all deemed/ unworthy. you are a haunted thing
that roams the windows
& walls, [[hovering over]]
something small
& withering.
that image of you
crying on the couch
when we had to put
the cat down
[[lives on]] in me.
my tita told me that
where she grew up,
they believe when
an animal becomes sick,
they are saving the life
of someone in the family.you once told me
i will miss everything
before—
the //always//
the //never//
the freedom
to [[choose]] one
or the other.
i
blurted out that sometimes i couldn't
believe you were a real person,
you only [[laughed]] and told me
you understood what i meant.“cherry cough drops
go great with bottled coke,”
you told me,
[[glass dangling]]—
glinting like a grin.
“I think you’d really like it,”
you hummed before
[[taking a swig]].
just twenty minutes
before your fall,
you were a still, fragile
portrait—
a barely-there
apparition
of a dreamer
who believed
her dreams
would take care of her,
keep her safe—
sitting in her room
collecting bottles:
[[sea-green]], [[translucent]],
[[dark red]].
your bad habits
made hip by bruised lipstick
and tiny tattoos
should have cued
everyone to your fate—
especially me,
the one with the eyes for torment.i used to write you love poems,
but you don’t know—
stories where you were soaring
and i watched from below
in admiration
welling well-beyond
my arms—
i tried to carry water
without a bucket
and it all [[poured out from me]].
late at night
i imagine your dreams
and write them down
in pages until i can guess
that i know you—i phoned you last week
and you picked up
only to deliver
words i swore
people only heard
at deathbeds, or
in desperate sleep-talk, or
during final partings—
“don’t forget me,”
and a moment later,
muffled in laughter, a quip:
“sorry, I’m just so dramatic.”
if the shape of my hands
means anything to you,
i'd like to know, so i can
[[reach out]] and find a way
to make them also mean
something to me.
it's possible i only have this one
moment beside you,
and if i miss that, [[what?]]
i do miss some things:
the ghosts & the stories
as they were apart—
unique entities
before death happened
& all became one.
↶↷laying to rest