the phoenix posts in pain

even as i make fantastic plans, book the flight to escape to europe for three weeks. to see roma again, my hearts home, and madrid — my first time to spain! even so, even as i make plans, i feel the tears drowning my heart, creeping up my throat, threatening to spill out into reality. i swallow it. i take the clue from you. what else am i supposed to do?

i knew that it might have been too late to ask to spend christmas with you, with family. but it didn’t know it would all be too late. i’m trying. i’m going to go away. find myself again, find myself as i did last time, in rome.

i don’t know what happens next, but i guess i am to stop waiting. waiting to be asked… to be asked on a date, to be asked home to christmas, to be asked to be your girlfriend.

I will go in this way
And find my own way out
I won’t tell you to stay
But I’m coming to much more


Sunday Morning

In the morning light he stands silhouetted against the kitchen window’s gaze. Trees are a near image of black and white the backdrop behind him. They have grown there of dinner’s waste disposed of in pots of soil to late reap trees of plum and lemon, dates, and tomato vines, melons sprouts that will never grow pregnant into their confined space, and a new sprout yet to be determined as orange or lemon, but he knows that it is citrus.

As he pours the water (word for just before boiling) into the pot the gas flame flames licking at the sky stretching great feats of distance, three and four inches high unbridled flame. Tea and toast and little cookies. He watered the plants and there is a slow cascade of water dripping that blends into the choirs music wafting through the kitchen that seems just all to fitting for a Sunday morning. He discusses living in the shadow of the Roman Catholic Church and wonders why the Pope doesn’t save lives instead of souls.

He plays the harmonic on the toes of one foot—no, it’s the pan flute—on all ten toes to Mozart’s K622.


The Arms of a Lost Lover

White froth
Of water disturbed
Path gouged in depths
Of raging darkest blues
And once serenest greens
A momentary trail
Of where he has gone

A small dark room
Cool stone walls
On tiled floor her feet move
Fluidity of movement
Leg to thigh
Hip to breast
Arm to neck
Viewed only
By the cicada
In the corner
A haunted dance

The fan vacillates
Antiqued metal stirs the air
Strings flutter
Its grace never touching
The sweat upon her face

Lowered arms
Slackened form
The music fading
The melody that was
From within