I witness street lamps skinny as pens.

The moon is as pale as draft paper –

I pray. More novel-less nights

Beckons. The key board of typewriters

Are made of small puddles of rain

Flowers are my most sincere

Memoir for March.

Outside of the world’s house

Waiting for my life

To get published.

Workshopped nightmares:

Roots howl in the reduction of light.

Silence hibernates between us.

Winter tears residing in my room

are just another irrelevant ocean to you.

Tides bruise me, & erode

your absence.

Handwriting reveals the way

one manufactures water & star.

But salt/ just makes ice denser.

No warm cloth.

My flesh barely dangles

on my skeleton



As silence hibernates between us.

You know when I read poem, I wrinkle

sometimes – you know that I have

more rivers than others, more torrents.

n between the seasonal migrations,

I’m scared of these shifts.

So I cry more monsoons, I ascend more rains,

publishing my maps like concealing diaries.

La palabra para herida

en corazón es deseo.

Lluvia como tinta,

cielo como papel.

Líneas en las libretas

mis venas.

Escribe para la sangre –

agua rojo, lágrima fría.

Las estrellas

son errores en mi poesía.

Por eso,

levanto mi amor,

quemo mis secretos.

we sit there,

clinging to a Thrashing summer,

to realize We all have Edges.

You are as Sharp as a wish,

as Rowdy as a cosmic.

All wings Colonize the Sky Tonight,

Arteries and Knuckles and Spines.

Let us reverse the tense.


With you, I’m short of metaphors,

But I still try to keep you in line.

If it were to start again, you wouldn’t

Fall someone with Lava Blood

& Basalt Heart. You wouldn’t have

My sediment, my mine, my geology

& You pretend history could be dead.

As if my culture were without an origin.

As if I were a rock without Volcano,

We sat side by side

The sound of the sea sounded plural

The riverbed was like cracked lips

& All the land enclosed

Into a kiss that could never be accomplished

I dare not to hold your hand

Cleaner than the sea breeze

Days met like the ocean, we remained in silence

The anaemic love, sounded plural

I prefer dashes & punctuation.
I prefer unfinished play scripts,
– Prefer sections of life that are done
& Stages of life still waiting to be complete.
I prefer sufficiently adequate lyrics & rhythms that are slightly skinny.
I prefer sleeps, Also awakenings.
I prefer answers, prefer harder questions.
I prefer poem-like flesh & verse-like nerves.
I prefer sleepless, nightless & darkless eyes.
I prefer every sing poem without the justification expectedly,
& Every single person with a private reasoning.

At the Northern Hemisphere for one night,

And becomes an orphan too. Waves don’t belong to

The homelands of any of us. Another realm

– – In my water-based life, you exist in the form of Salt,

Occasionally you ask about dwellings I’ve rented.

I say, the plain – how vast it is,

I keep on walking, keep on walking,

Till the Sand

Shades into the Sea.

That day we harvested

A mutual spring full of monologues.

I polish the resolution kept in the prop box

& Choreograph our absence.

& I smoke your absence in,

Map out your movements in my lungs,

To narrate your breath.

Then I recall your habitat, rebuild your shelter,

& Revive your scripts along the scenes

– In this backyard

Where the world happens without conflicts without climax

Without a flower.

When did you decide to reclaim me with blades?

When did your heart become twice as heavy,

Under the absence of a shade? How did you transform

All the soft lips, inky stars, seething heart

Into leather scars? What did you crave

Out of the sky, on those night when I’m not home?

Where is our fallen drum,

Your silent beat, my operatic weeping?

Where is the beam of truth? Why did I

Disappear? When shall I enter the stage?

How will my tears applause, my body bows

When my audience forget my name?

With a lock of sunset

I dye our sonnet red.

I rinse you clean using stars

& Patches of skies –

In this dancing ritual.

You’ve corrupted me with love

So I have to sob over those official seeds.

I’m voluntarily vulnerable. I admit.

Spring is only our extended meaning.

& Night is the longest monologue

We’ve ever performed.

Rosebuds. The time we spend

Together is concise and vague.

I discovered:

We are unwelcomed

guests to this world.

When I write to you

I make the Universe capital.

You: the cliff

I always lean onto when I

fall.

You are my long outdated

Inevitable hope that’s never blown –

For me always

As usual.

I will write to you today, Dear Aunt Ella,
Getting ready for the big fight
With a letter this evening
Send me a paper of ice & flood
Even mountains & glaciers. We
Will drive a little - Separated:
We are as good as we are.

Sometimes I go to sleep because I’m afraid. Sometimes I wake up because I have walls. Walls around me are white, as they typically do, as they should do. I talk to you in the middle of a white chamber, a dungeon with a heart in it. I carry a red death cell at my center. You laughed so loud, and shrunk into a pair of red shoes. The night has kept dancing in them ever since, and I’ve become as black as my fear.

– – I can’t find my keys anywhere, sis.

Now I feel cold:

I forget I left my scarf behind in which winter.

The road home is long to go,

Long enough for me to recite the entire

Passage of spring learned on my own.

My Sis, I was thinking of you

Along the road,

& Remembered that I own names,

& Brown eyes hadn’t so gloom.