there’s a whole world
to throw yourself against, so why
choose love to bruise you?

love

is the softest catastrophe.

ARCHIPELAGOS (MADE OF COLLAPSING)

I.

In the hollows,
between the trees,
where the woods
come into sharp
relief, like ribs,
like bone-shards
stretched with breath,

Five o’clock, and already the windows
are starting to bleed. How fragile it looks

chambering

in the light, this little world of ours, rough
and looming over the skin of it all.

beneath
my collarbones, my unsung
guitar strings answer
the dark of your mouth (again
and again), singing all
of the bruises.

II.

Let sunlight slip like halos across my eyes,
around the shadow you left behind, climbing

out of each other and back
into our own bodies by breakfast.

III.

In our eyes, the stars col-

What a lovely eclipse

lapse beautifully
inside a vanishing room,

you continue to be.

like scribbled notes across blue music,
rejoicing, we are here,
                            we are here, again.

Heart-Project

1) Write her a love letter: mail it to her childhood home. Address the envelope to her folks. Call them by first name. 2) Call them up. Ask if they’ve read the damn thing. Ask approval to send the letter to their youngest daughter, who woke you up to all this light. Have them mail it back to you. This way, they know where you live. 3) And don’t tell her about these little anecdotes. 4) There will be artifacts in your room: reminders of distance, of flames. Scour them from their hiding places. Forgive yourself. 5) Don’t give yourself room to breathe. Make yourself small for her: let her hold you like a lit, paper match. 6) Pull out your sharpest teeth. Surrender them to garden soil. Dedicate your life to keeping whatever crawls out of the carnage-vines alive. 7) Give your future daughter a name. Make the world a welcome home for her. She will be beautiful. She will be half of you. 8) Tell that half to love itself. 9) Tell the other half to love itself. 10) She will love you with a heart full of wolves. Thank her mother everyday for the heart in her side. Thank her for the wolves: how they fight with last blood for what is theirs.

Portrait of Your Father, Regarding the Crocodile

You stitch together pieces of the story from everyone else but your father.
How he fled from the mouth of a crocodile.

How he spent the first fourteen years of his life with a machete
in his hand, bowed his back under three hundred years
                                                                                            of sugarcane        

How the history of sugarcane is the history of the machete is the history of Cuba is the history of sweat and strangle and choke.

The few words he can muster, after two decades,
he spits forth like old bones, out from the throat
                                                                                    of a Riverdog god

How a job isn’t nothing but selling your time
for someone else’s money, and money is the blood
                                                                     of someone else’s dream

How everybody got three hundred dollar problems,
and don’t nobody got three hundred years
                                                                     to give you back.

How none of us want to live someone else’s dream.

By the time you learn of the crocodile living in your father’s stomach,
you are no longer living under his roof, waiting—
                                                                        praying                —for him to rise

once more,
                       for air.

I’m Gonna Be Published!

Holy Crap! I’m spinning and confused and so so grateful, friends. It’s been two years since I started down this lovely journey, and here we are: the next milestone. I’m honestly having trouble wrapping my head around this, so, some croncrete detes:

The magazine that got back to me is called Wildness, you can go to their site here
http://readwildness.com/

The poem itself (Redshift) will be taken down from the blog for, you know, legal reasons, but hey, small prices.

My work will be featured in the magazine’s eight issue, due this April! April, friends! That’s basically in my lifetime!

Holy crap. I need to lie down and cry in the best way.