i think of her
the same way people think of
hunger balanced on their tongue
or when the thunder
perfectly timed, cracks open the sky
the soft vowels and slight curve
as i dust her off the shelf
put her back, limbs attached
stare at her forlornly without a care
i think of her
when the thought in my mind becomes heavy
as heavy as a lie
but there is nothing here
but space and backspace
the death of another poem

the rain is sweet to me
its cold touch a motherlike hug
my feet are unsteady and
they are likely to slip
but the rain pours over
fills my shoes with liquid courage
and makes them fly

summer swipes its tongue
across its teeth,
i am undone in its heat
its air a humming thing
reaching out,
i am undone in its heat
melting, dripping
my fingers fit in
its soft mouth
i am undone in its heat

the heat is a blanket
over my tiny body
i am waiting for your
cool touch, heaven eyes
the two of us from above
but do not care about them
i will make us a heaven here
i want to touch, to engulf
waters meeting shore
rain falling down
its water is enough to soothe,
to renew, breathe into the blue
until you are whole again
until then, heaven is just a thought

lines and lines
of rivulets of words
gushing, stemming from
the thin. soft skin
of my wrist.
I poke at it, examine it
fingers pushing in
just to check to see
if i am still a writer, after all
i wonder if i'm all used up
i wonder if the ink has dried
it's been six months
have i been pretending to be alive?

sometimes
i am terrified
of the heaviness
of my words
breathless, shapeless
but so very alive
sometimes
i wonder
if it them who writes
and i the silver pen

i used to swallow english dictionaries
force the foreign vowels in my mouth
chew them, grind them between my teeth
until they are
a facsimile of sustenance, substance
its sharp corners scratch my throat
then i water it down with
the warm satisfaction of approval
and i did this work, this habit
for years and years and years
my tongue has curved around the
space i molded it from
my teeth has bent from the pressure
of forced phonetic mastication
my voice has the tilted quality
of a bird snatched from the forest
in hopes of sounding sweet
i sound lost, i sound unsure
i try to retrace my grandmother’s voice
it lingers on my tongue, before it dissolves
like sugar on my lips