There's something sinister about a
wind that slides in after nightfall,
particularly if it's also the sort
whose whisper grows to a groan
by supper, groan grows to
a moan by bed-time, and
moan mounts to a shriek by
midnight.

Some things just taste like poetry:
their flavors caress the tongue and
mingle with the breath. They race
through my veins and make every
sense perceive art.
For me, one of these things is
mozzarella cheese.

Part One

Twelve days ago I sowed a seed
in ground where it would grow.
Did it stretch its tendrils tall?
In truth, I do not know.
It had all that a life might need:
good loam, the sun, and air,
but will it in its growth succeed?
If it didn't, would you care?
Or, for that matter, care would I
if its short life were to end?
Do we think outside ourselves
or towards our innards tend?

On Chicken

There was an old man from Kentucky
who fancied himself rather lucky
so he jumped from a bridge
to prove that he'd live;
afterward he didn't feel quite as plucky.

أحبك In Five Hesitations

I.

Letters are just symbols
combined to shape words.
Words are just symbols
combined to shape ideas.
Ideas can be dangerous;
This is why, in the history of oppression,
illiteracy has been the weapon most
commonly wielded by the oppressor.
I want to write.
I want to share my thoughts
with you.
I want to use words
to show you my thoughts;
Perhaps I may put them in your head as well.
Perhaps I may name thoughts that are already there.
Do I dare?

II.
I want to tell you something.
It's something I've said a thousand times
already, but words can be misleading.
It's something I've shown you a thousand
times, but looks can be misjudged.

III.
Words bind me
Words free me
Words fill me
Words leave me.

IV.
I remember feeling
Light-headed and tripping
over my words
(how they tangled 'round my tongue)
Very foolish, very
Embarrassing, but then again
You did take me by surprise
Outside, I regained my footing:
"Unlikely."

V.
Music in my head:
someone else's music.

Allow me my indulgence:
I love you.

On Sleep

I try not to hear things at night, but
things try much harder to be heard.
The grandfather, the clock,
bellowing every quarter-hour;
his many offspring ticking
praise and condemnation to me,
tocking out their quarrels:
they never can percuss a united front;
the heater, rumbling in the
dungeon like a discontent dragon;
automobiles-
electricity-
all too shy to whisper during the day,
but reliably willing to shout at night.


My refrigerator is an insomniac. At least, a restless sleeper. It rouses and grumbles, stretches and yawns its way through the night. Each time, my grandmother rises and checks on it.

On Cleanliness

I usually shower.
For me, taking a bath is an act of self-indulgence. Of extravagance.
I bathe only when I feel really, really dirty.
I want to see the water cloud with my filth.
I want to feel it flow over every inch of me.

I don't want to turn the water off.
It's not that I want it to keep running and running and growing deeper and hotter and higher.
It isn't, really.
It's that I want it to be loud.
I want its rushing torrents to drown out the silence.
Oh, intolerable silence!
When I'm in the mood for bathing, silence reminds me why.

I put my head under the water,
see how long I can hold my breath.
Warm embrace of the water and beautiful black,
then white and then air.
It reminds me how enjoyable breathing is, after all.

I want to get out as soon as possible,
to watch every last drop spiral down,
dark into the drain.
I dry off:
two towels, sometimes more.
And a blow-dryer for my hair.
I don't want any of my damp past clinging to me.