30/28: The Inkless Tatoo

She is curious about your markings,
wants to know where they are from.
Wants to know which hurt the most?
Which took the longest? Her line of
questioning should be familiar,
you wear your story on your skin.
Years ago you were a blank canvas,
then voice found its way to ink
and now you are ink god, confessor,
work in progress. Author, painter
and commander of ink on your body.
You are an architect co-writing a
story on a patchwork of skins we
tell together, but separately. This
woman from the Midwest, she
wants to know more. She asks
Do you remember your first time?
and this is when you realize she is
telling you about her skin, telling
you about her markings. So you
listen to what she isn’t saying, with
eyes that avoid yours and skin
well hidden under clothes hanging
loose on her weary frame. She
gives nothing away. Her markings
involve pain, but no ink. This is not
the story she wants to tell, the chronicle
of bad choices and desperate cling,
of lovers who love inadequately.
So you answer each question
delicately, knowing her fragile
ears are drowning with a truth
that threatens to own her. You
look straight ahead, knowing
her eyes are always close to
bursting and give her a kindness
she might recognize from the days
when she was a blank canvas.
And when a text message
unnerves her so that she has to go,
you finally look into her eyes and
speak clearly You take care now,
and lift your glass to her as she goes.

30/27: The Year of Kissing Girls and Boys

It is the era of Absolut Vodka in the year
of the DVD’s break through.
Tommy Lee is in love with a buxom Baywatch
blonde and Tupac breaks the ceiling scoring
a number one album while he is in prison.
ebay is a newborn and we are plump
with the prime of our youth.
We know little of limits and consequence,
we will  hear nothing of no or stop.
Wild night is calling and this is all we heed.
Thirsty for pleasure, we heed with our mouths.   
Absolut Kurant is our rave, splashed with soda
served in a martini glass garnished with a cherry.
The heat of urban nightlife stokes our pulse and
we are parched. So we drink to our youth
and beauty, and we drink to love. And we
dance, dance, dance. No matter the
absence of dance floor, we are hips on fire.
We know little of guilt and shame,
we will  hear nothing of stop or convention.
Wild night is calling and this is all we heed.
Thirsty for pleasure, we heed with our mouths.   
We are plump with the ripeness of our youth,
succulent lips and supple skin.
Spectacular spectacle, we are wet
with kissing, hot with tongue.
Oh luscious lust, you are our
Church. Everyday is Sunday
and every night, we witness.
we testify, we praise.

30/26: Flowers From Vincent

I marvel at this land you have
walked before, where once
you found muse and anguish.
I bathe in the hues of the sun,
I am yellow princess of this rocky
field of gray. The irises curtsy
in respect of me. By nightfall when
the sunflowers are sleeping
soundly I go barefoot,
ravenous grazer in the fields.
I swallow this starry starry night,
collect fireflies with my hair.
In the morning when I wake,
by my bedside the sunflowers
are aglow. The window
frames a mosaic mountainside
of slate and flowering orchards. 
All this, all for me. From you.

30/25: Makahiya (The Shy One)

I lie in the sun
and slowly open
one leaf at a time.
This is when
you see me,
in this simple way
on an ordinary day.
I soak in your
light and vapors,
take in your rich
words to the deepest
roots of me far
into the earth.
We find a spring
and share a drink
there. They think I
am shy, call me by
different names.
Bashful. Sleeping.
Shrinking.
I know you see me,
feel your longing,
let you touch me.
The touch of you
stings my delicate
leaves and I close.
The strength of you
closes me and in
this closing, I find
my destiny.


*'Makahiya' is the Philippine name for a grass that grows there. The word means 'shy' and describes a plant that, once touched, closes. In other parts of the world it is called Humble plant, Shame plant, Sleeping grass, Touch-me-not, and Mori Vivi (West Indies).

30/24: The Shallow Well

What is a woman to do
when the husband
she will not leave
is no longer hers?
What is a man to do
when he loves his children
but cannot live
with their mother?
Dear love,
some days
you are not that
deep or complicated.
Once you’re gone,
you’re gone.
Do you take
the blueprints
with you?
All that’s left
is cataloged in
photographs
and a pile
of post-it notes.
After you left our
home, we hankered
for you, fingers
scampering
for crumbs in
the cookie jar,
mouths
searching
thirsty for
drops of
you in the
pitcher.
I called for
you in whispers
and all I found
was the salt.

30/23: You Could Have Been My Brother

I think of the randomness of circumstance,
of the little we can control. I think about this
as I walk home from the film I have just seen
here in New York City. The film takes me back
to the Philippines, tells me the story of a boy
named Paco, who is now a man in a Spanish
prison. Paco, you are a stranger to me, but right
now I feel so close to you, I feel  that you could
have been my brother. We have the same ethnic
mix, you and my brother are three years
apart in age. I am haunted by the
thought that you could have been my brother.

My brother’s story could have been your story.
Prison is stealing years from you, Paco. But still,
what  happened for my brother can still happen
for you. Let me tell you what is waiting for you.
You will find friendship, you will find advocacy.
You will find people who care only about where
you’re headed and not where you’ve been.
You will come to know the love of a woman who
is not family, then the heartaches that come from
that breaking. You will know the rewards of an
honest day’s work, remember the joy of a
day off and discovery the weekend again.

You will remember how a free man walks on concrete,
build a house without fences, learn how to unlock your
door.You will fall in love again, and buy her a ring. You
will get down on one knee and know the joy of yes.
You will know the joy of yes, the exhilaration of yes,
after fourteen years of no you will find the simple
and profound joy of yes. Paco Larrañaga, you are
an innocent man jailed for no fault of yours. You
could have been my brother, and on this eve of Easter
Sunday, I pray for you as if you were my brother.

30/22: Fire in Marlboro Country

I catch a glint
in your eye that
unnerves me,
as if to challenge.
This is how I know
you’re the one.
All dark brown stunning,
silky mane
and proud stance.
Today there is
only you. Tomorrow
is Easter and
today, I ride.
I am eleven years old.
I motion to you
with a slight
head nod,
come over
then mount you.
Reins firmly
held in my left hand,
leather straps
in right, I click
tongue to inner
cheek, get up
on my haunches,
nudge you
with the heel
of my right foot
and we are off.

We are beautiful
brown hair blowing
in the wind,
we are
rhythm of
gallop, we are
gorgeous dance
of brute force
and balletic gait.
We are break
away from the trail,
we are abandon.
We are thrill and
exhilaration.
We are
my girl gasps
and your beastly
breath. We are mist
on this cool summer
morning.  We are
unstoppable
speed, unflappable
ride.

Nothing can
touch us.
Not the skinny
trail, not the
ravine to
our right, not
the rocks
slipping from
under your
hooves, not
the screams
of the pack we’ve
left behind. Not
the cloud of
dust, not the
other on the
leaves latching
on to your
tail. Not even
the sunbeams
can catch
our skins.

Only you
can touch me,
anoint me
wild child,
untamed,
fearless.
Only I can
touch you,
anoint you
sage,
master,
wise man.
On this ride,
on a trail called
Marlboro Country,
I find fire.