Upright

A fourteen-year-old
eyed me unblinkinly
around the classroom today,
as if instead of his plump,
clumsy English teacher,
I were one of the ballerinas
of the Royal Ballet,
flying over the desks
in a grand jeté, 
and offered me a hug
in the end of the class,
for he was carrying
no bouquet.

The art of walking upright here

is the art of using both feet.

One is for holding on.

One is for letting go. 

~ Allen Curnow 

Strangers VI

Dear Stranger,

You searched my window
four times today
for traces of me,
would you have called
if you had my number?

I've been watching you too.
You seem to worry I might
die all by myself in  my bedroom.

Who would find the body?
How long would it take?

Don't worry.
I'd have someone inform you.

Friends tell me to leave you alone,
you won't shout words from your window,
you're probably afraid to sound crazy.
You are not the only one.

Thoughts on nights spent on living

a house of mirrors, my Lord,
and empty orbits:
this world, these people

who are born from similar explosions
who respond to the same clock

who can't tell reflections from bodies.

Let them not find it, my Lord, 

hidden in the secret compartment

under the library, too broken a heart.

I love selflessly,

I pray for my enemies,

I walk my path slowly.

why can't I be spared?

Strangers IV

Dear Stranger,

I would tell you
the stories behind the neon letters
if you couldn't guess.
Something tells me you do.

Have you ever visited
the space between two words
in a poem? Try me here,
there is enough room

for the thoughts on your mind
and the questions you don't ask
because they would get lost on
the way from your window to mine.

I talked to someone last night
who couldn't sleep either.
He had a cigarette and watched
the empty loneliness of the streets.

I was the one who waved.
Would you have waved back?
Will you,
ever?

Strangers III

Dear stranger,

How much do you get from my silence?
Do you see me waving from my window?
Because I do.

There isn't enough for a poem sometimes.

Sometimes there's too much work.
Sometimes I don't want to go home.
Sometimes I just lie in bed looking at the ceiling,

Wishing for a good dream.

Can you tell it just by looking over my shoulder
and peering into my frame?
When you can read these silences,

We'll be no longer strangers.

Strangers II

Dear stranger,

if you don't mind me asking,
what are you doing home
on a Saturday night?

Mother believes I've got
Chikungunya fever,
I've been forced to

lemon tea and blankets.
I don't tell her my heart aches.
She can't keep secrets.

If we lived across from each other,
if I had a flashlight,
if you could read Morse code,

would you find a way
to take me out
for beer and jokes?

(For the stranger out there, peeking into my soul lots of times throughout the day.)

(PS.: I don't drink.)

Strangers

I could be one of the lit windows
in your neighborhood.

Late night, when you
listened to the noisy city streets

tentatively searching
for a familiar soul,

I would watch your silhouette
framed on the side of a building

long enough to invent a story
which explained your presence

and hope we could meet again
in sleeplessness.

(To the stranger who's been watching my exercise on existing closely for long hours this week)

Doubting Thomas

You stretch my exactitude
by trying me under a hundred names.
I wonder which is your favorite.

Because the things you can touch
are the only things you can believe,
You question my nudity.

You doubt me with your heart
for you can't trust me with your skin,
too far apart for your hand in mine.

Commuters

This man on the bus

wears a faded brown shirt,

a window seat

and a ponytail, 

but never a smile.

He checks 

my shoes,

my hands 

and tattoos,

but never my eyes.

This man on the bus

carries a doubt,

a subway ticket 

and a fault,

but never a cry.

He owns 

a picture frame,

a yard and

a name,

but never a heart.

(Written for the State College of Florida Swampscribes prompt for NaPoWriMo day 1)

The song I hum

The Mill, 1964, by Andrew Wyeth

A man spying on a window open to my soul
can read  much of who I am,

but will he peek long enough to ever figure me out?

Does he see through the furniture and walls
for a better grasp of the big picture?

Will he get close enough to learn the song I hum?

(Shared with The Mag and The Imaginary Garden)

A cat on the roof

I once met a man
with multiple lives,
say nine.

A stray cat who
happened to learn fate
traveling on big cities' roofs,

peeking into
open windows
on chaotic souls.

Scrounging neighboring garbage cans
for occasional meals of love,
granted leftovers on fortunate days

- curdled milk,
fruit and vegetable peels,
choking fish bones.

Five major turns in destiny survived

for his meowing Symphony yet to free sleeping spirits

- mine,
one of those.

(posted to The Imaginary Garden)

Going

Two boys climbing a tree this morning,
on my way to the market.

A father watching the two of  them closely.
A mother watching the three of them lovingly.

On my way to the market,
the road I have not taken teases me.

Brave

They come all the way
across the Indian ocean
past the Cape of
Good Hope
and beyond it,

her head and
heart,
to find solace
in the words
I write for you.

She presumes
I understand the patterns
people who part
imprint on the souls
they leave behind.

I don't.

She eavesdrop
as I talk to you
in each and every line,
she knows my fears
and still finds me brave.

I'm not.

Except in my dreams,
when you come close and
I'm embraced
by your presence.
I'm invincible then.