Tuesday, December 29, 2015

There's this thing that happens to my sister and I when we start laughing together, almost immediately tears start streaming down our faces like our inner selves are so sad that these funny moments only happen in each other's presence. The thin barrier between grief and glad is accessed too easily even in a public space like the subway platform just the other day. The exposure of this very real moment between profound sadness and extreme silliness floods us at once simultaneously. I'm sure onlookers watch, assured of our complete madness. 

Thursday, October 22, 2015

My nieces always wear their nails pointy like the tips of ancient arrowheads. They have matured quickly, too fast for any of us to catch on to their changing bodies. They tower over me and my mother and suddenly it feels like we are peasants in the company of queens.

A precious bond sits between two women if they are brave enough to face the heartache of letting it unleash. It cements us to one another with roots as deep as the water table line. There is a distinct and unhurried nature to the unfolding of a woman's friendship, cautiously we enter; fawn eyes scanning the environment for danger. And when you find a sister, you can rest there knowing you can quietly sip water together downloading each others feelings without ever having to discuss a thing. 

Sunday, October 18, 2015

Reflection Dance

The rectangle of light would move across Daddy's face, perfectly framing his Sinatra blue eyes. They always seem like they were looking right through you, then smiling at you as the cars passed ahead of us and the lighted box would disappear into the crimson bright tail lights ahead. I never fail to think about Daddy driving with windows down and a short military buzz cut when I see the light dance reflection across your face from the rearview mirror. 

Mama, Daddy and and I were driving back  from the Gas Light Inn on the South Carolina coast, back when it took five or more hours to reach the sea. I was folded in the back of my Dad's black, two door Honda Prelude (1987); covered a propped with sojourning pillows and blankets. Blonde streaks of hair fell over my forehead and I never heard the sirens or saw the royal blue lights. 

__Do you know how fast you were going? 
__Is that your daughter in the back?

The cop let Daddy off with only a warning and I rubbed my sandy feet together on the cloth of the back seats too young to know I'd been his free ticket. 

I went to court with him on another occasion and the judge lessened the speeding sentence. I wore a filly lavender dress. As I got older Daddy returned the favor as he stood beside me for an underage drinking ticket. I faced other trials alone, but I always felt his Southern strength bracing me. 

Saturday, October 17, 2015


When I was a young child I would stare into the mirror at my own irises until they turned into the night's sky or the eyes of a thousand children before me and I could not remember who I was. It was frightening disintegrating in front of myself, tiny pixelated fragments floating in the reflection, the edges of my vision darkening the vignette until I was almost gone. Then I would focus back on the hue of my skin and materialize once again. A little girl peering in a looking glass. 


Hold the pen to paper
to write into action
the same as before. 

How I wanted the 
signature to be elegant,
forever entombed in
the magistrate's file. 

How I wanted the 
recipient to remark on
the curve of the Y, the
fluidity of the R
there beginning my 
new last name. 

Sign it now, the name
you were born bearing;
your true one,
unmoving like stone. 
hands apart and together, electricity i can feel in your eyes .
they're curled against your own transgressions and lost loves.
the way your  cigarette sits between the middle, I imitate it, it dangles
and is about to fall all in the two seas and your lips they sneak to my ears
and grab at my eyes, they take me under my own tights, whistle to remember
your hometown. And to car rides not yet taken. He didn't look like a man, did he?
I look for you when I sleep, swaying between dreams. 

Movements at Night

It took me six and a half years to start sleeping like you, bat-like with ankles crossed low and arms folded into an x over my chest. Was your body silently communicating with me at night to do it your way? Sending molecular telegraphs to my legs to lift up over one another and gently fall crossed at the ankles, motivating my arms to close up in a coffin cued dance under the thick blankets of linen and down. It is surprising to me I never realised I was a back-sleeper with all its vulnerabilities, open wide unto the world, saying Here I Am, I Am Yours.