Bridge

The mosquitoes hover
quietly landing on
moist, sweat, skin
you are sweet and silent
I can almost breath you in

but it wouldn't matter
if you could push
past all the particles
hanging in between
and bridge connection

because I would still be here
mending broken pieces and
tending to my wounds

In the mess of being human
I want everything
I'm not ready for

I want love's kiss
and tight arms
around my broken heart
I want to dart in the dark
and fall into a pile of
yellows and pinks and reds
I want your hot breath
oxygen tickling my lungs
I want to smell, taste, touch
my way back home.

Time Machine

Thirteen and drunk
she woke up to her 18 year old friend
thrusting, panting
on top of her
while she laid there
silent, motionless

I draw blueprints of the time machine
while at work-
a golden sled, a dial, three light bulbs
this tiny machine will pierce
black holes and exit the present
with a tornado of colors
twisting light and sound,
for a moment the boundaries
between past and present
will be tangible
like a thick curtain
and I will puncture its fabric
catapulting into the shadows
of the universe-

So I can be there beside her
to say
enough, enough
and stop him from unleashing
his violence

But instead,
the past is suspended
over my head
and I can't pull it in front of me
like a canvas to rewrite, rework, reimagine
I must sit and digest all the things I couldn't do
and throw my time machine diagram
into the fire.

(Tiger in a cage,
I'm like a tiger in a cage)

But maybe,
just maybe
in the future
If we revisit it together
we can tug on that thread of pain
throwing new moments in the mix
until we've connected
the past, present, and future
into our own beautiful sonata
that we'll play over and over
until our voices are louder
and stronger
than his voice will ever be.

Homage

Smoking cigarettes on the roof like I'm 16 again-
I howl at the moon like a lone wolf
And bury the ashes under a loose tile,
Still operating in secret
Even though it's been ages since I lived
Under the oppressive shadow of a dictatorial man
I still cringe at the sound of heavy footsteps
Tuned in to all the noises of anger
And can picture my dog pinned against the side of
Her red dog house by her collar,
ingesting swift punches

I couldn't save her then
But on summer nights I pay homage
And mimic her sad cries,
Blowing angry smoke at an indifferent moon.