By Its Cover
your skin is a novel
and i am an avid reader
give me a chance to
devour pages of your pores
and perfect skin
i judge this book by its cover
my fingertips uncover the puzzle of your flesh
sample syntax from sinewy surfaces
memorize metaphors through your most sensitive membranes
send messages from nerve endings to brain -
i read your freckles like braille
and in their amber script
i found myself
and i am an avid reader
give me a chance to
devour pages of your pores
and perfect skin
i judge this book by its cover
my fingertips uncover the puzzle of your flesh
sample syntax from sinewy surfaces
memorize metaphors through your most sensitive membranes
send messages from nerve endings to brain -
i read your freckles like braille
and in their amber script
i found myself
This is Just to Say
this is just to say
i will spend my time
convincing myself
that it wasn't me
who pushed you away
spend my forever
telling myself
that it wasn't
the awkward curve of my breasts
or the swells of my uneven skin
that made you go
that when your eyes
won't meet mine
in public spaces
you are not avoiding a memory of
two tongues intertwined softly
and fingers laced tight
and you're not full of regret
from that beautiful night
you can't tell me you love me
because the words are so big
you might choke
i will spend my time
convincing myself
that it wasn't me
who pushed you away
spend my forever
telling myself
that it wasn't
the awkward curve of my breasts
or the swells of my uneven skin
that made you go
that when your eyes
won't meet mine
in public spaces
you are not avoiding a memory of
two tongues intertwined softly
and fingers laced tight
and you're not full of regret
from that beautiful night
you can't tell me you love me
because the words are so big
you might choke
A Kiss is Not a Promise
a kiss is not a promise
it is fleeting
it is temporal.
a quick moment in time and space.
two sets of imperfect lips
connecting for seconds.
and it does not mean the future
though it might feel
like experiencing
the universe in seconds
a touch is not a contract
and your hands on my skin
might feel like cells awakening
might feel like pores on fire
might feel like you're mine
but it is just a touch
and a touch is not a contract
and a kiss is not a promise
it is fleeting
it is temporal.
a quick moment in time and space.
two sets of imperfect lips
connecting for seconds.
and it does not mean the future
though it might feel
like experiencing
the universe in seconds
a touch is not a contract
and your hands on my skin
might feel like cells awakening
might feel like pores on fire
might feel like you're mine
but it is just a touch
and a touch is not a contract
and a kiss is not a promise
Papa Tries to Mince Words
Just after I got my nose pierced
Papa took me to Blockbuster to rent a movie
and held up a James Bond flick.
"That looks good," I said.
"It sure as hell does", he answered.
"James Bond could shoot that thing right out of your nose."
Papa took me to Blockbuster to rent a movie
and held up a James Bond flick.
"That looks good," I said.
"It sure as hell does", he answered.
"James Bond could shoot that thing right out of your nose."
Above-Ground Pool
being with me
is like installing an above ground pool
it can be incredibly fun, in the end,
but you really should understand
the kind of commitment
you’re getting into
is like installing an above ground pool
it can be incredibly fun, in the end,
but you really should understand
the kind of commitment
you’re getting into
For Your Own Security
Please don’t choose a password associated with your phone number or address.
Choose one of the following security questions:
What is your mother’s maiden name?
What was the name of your first pet?
What is the name of your favourite childhood friend?
What was the first concert you attended with a lover that you couldn't let go of?
What is the name of the first person who tore your heart to shreds?
Why didn't you call me when you said you would?
Choose one of the following security questions:
What is your mother’s maiden name?
What was the name of your first pet?
What is the name of your favourite childhood friend?
What was the first concert you attended with a lover that you couldn't let go of?
What is the name of the first person who tore your heart to shreds?
Why didn't you call me when you said you would?
People Say that Bing Crosby was a Racist
People say that Bing Crosby was a racist
But when I hear his cashmere voice
And see his pants pulled up slightly too high
I just want to be in Vermont
Cuddling you under a fuzzy green blanket
By a fireplace in a ski-shack
While you read me a list
Of all the Inuit words
For snow
But when I hear his cashmere voice
And see his pants pulled up slightly too high
I just want to be in Vermont
Cuddling you under a fuzzy green blanket
By a fireplace in a ski-shack
While you read me a list
Of all the Inuit words
For snow
False Alarm
Sitting at the kitchen table in a dirty white apron
With a huge, dented metal pot perched between her knees
My grandma peeled russet potatoes
And slid each one gingerly into the freezing water
as if she didn’t want to disturb the others.
“How’s university?”, she asks, flicking a renegade peel off the back of her hand.
“Pretty busy.” I reply, not looking up from my newspaper.
“No boyfriend?” she says, her eyes lifting to my face for a second.
“No, Gran. I’m really busy.”
She places a half-peeled potato back onto the pile,
And lets her knife drop into her apron,
Wiping her fingers on the fabric pulled taught between her knees.
She turns her hands over and rests her palms on her thighs,
staring at her red knuckles
and the veiny roadmaps of all the places she's never been.
"You know," she says gingerly,
her eyes on her open hands,
"If you're a lesbian, we'll still love you."
With a huge, dented metal pot perched between her knees
My grandma peeled russet potatoes
And slid each one gingerly into the freezing water
as if she didn’t want to disturb the others.
“How’s university?”, she asks, flicking a renegade peel off the back of her hand.
“Pretty busy.” I reply, not looking up from my newspaper.
“No boyfriend?” she says, her eyes lifting to my face for a second.
“No, Gran. I’m really busy.”
She places a half-peeled potato back onto the pile,
And lets her knife drop into her apron,
Wiping her fingers on the fabric pulled taught between her knees.
She turns her hands over and rests her palms on her thighs,
staring at her red knuckles
and the veiny roadmaps of all the places she's never been.
"You know," she says gingerly,
her eyes on her open hands,
"If you're a lesbian, we'll still love you."
Letting Go
I left the half-eaten bowl of strawberries
On the coffee table in my living room;
Didn’t readjust the couch cushions
Or fold up the throw blanket
When you left.
I couldn’t rinse out the wine glass you used;
Your lip-stains and finger-prints
Are the only evidence I have
that it was you
that was here.
On the coffee table in my living room;
Didn’t readjust the couch cushions
Or fold up the throw blanket
When you left.
I couldn’t rinse out the wine glass you used;
Your lip-stains and finger-prints
Are the only evidence I have
that it was you
that was here.
System Upgrade
I told you I needed your help with my computer.
But really I just wanted to play connect-the-dots
Between the freckles on the back of your neck
With my tongue
While you reformatted
my hard drive
But really I just wanted to play connect-the-dots
Between the freckles on the back of your neck
With my tongue
While you reformatted
my hard drive
Corduroy
indefinable
and translucent,
he reads.
his honey-stained words
snake through every room
filling cracks in walls,
smoothing over still skin
and seeping through pores.
blankets of clouded whispers
pool in a warm cup
and radiate through
numb-restless fingers.
he lights a fire,
weaving heat in soft chords and ridges
igniting limbs and surfaces
and peeling back pretense
so with shallow velvet breaths
and heart beating through ears
i listen.
i draw in his soothing smoke
and i feel
corduroy
and translucent,
he reads.
his honey-stained words
snake through every room
filling cracks in walls,
smoothing over still skin
and seeping through pores.
blankets of clouded whispers
pool in a warm cup
and radiate through
numb-restless fingers.
he lights a fire,
weaving heat in soft chords and ridges
igniting limbs and surfaces
and peeling back pretense
so with shallow velvet breaths
and heart beating through ears
i listen.
i draw in his soothing smoke
and i feel
corduroy
