I Didn’t Know Your Love

I didn’t know, Mother
How gently you held me to your chest
The hours you invested in my nourishment
The nights you were the only one awake with me
The days you forfeited to make me
A little bit of a better person
Years slipped by like baby breaths
Trips to Safeway for Saltines and licorice
At every piano recital and gymnastics meet
Every haircut, heartbreak, and injury

The love you poured into me and you got nothing
The love you poured around me when I closed myself up
As I dug at my arms with a switchblade and
Wrote notes on how to tie a noose and
Pushed away my birthday cake and
Shut myself in my room to get high
And spent nights crawling out my window and
Lying to you
Thinking I wanted to die
So I refused you
And everything
You offered

And I’m sorry, Mother
When I was younger, I didn’t know
Your love is vast like an ocean
Your love sheds light in the earliest hours
Your love comes back like the tide on the shore
Your love is an unmoving mountain I tried to climb
Your love is the sun I see each morning and forget to acknowledge
And I’m sorry it took me so long to discover
When I was younger, Mother
I didn’t know


The Gamble of DNA

Thumbing through an album of my childhood,
I am caught by the urge to cradle a child
in my arms, wild-haired and scarlet-cheeked.

I want not my former self, but an output of my DNA;
a genetic product of the traits I wish to express:
the subdued artistic sensibility,
neat gleaming rows of teeth,
a curious athletic vigor, intelligence.

I list the qualities I would do away with:
dark unending moods, panicking on plane rides,
the tendency towards alcoholism,
nocturnal jaw-grinding, and skin cancer.

Did too my parents ponder which features I might
inherit or escape, as embryo me swelled and matured?
No, for I was a surprise, a niggling itch,
and then a heart-stopping realization.

Each bleached photo of my youth reminds me
a child is a lottery ticket, a gamble
revealed over the years
as their silvery surface is slowly scratched away.

Closed Doors (Pantoum I)

Mama shut the bedroom door;
I could not ask her why.
Papa’s knees fell to the floor.
Sister began to cry.

I could not ask her why
the rocking chair was shattered.
Sister began to cry,
she said it didn’t matter.

The rocking chair was shattered:
I asked what have I done?
She said it didn’t matter,
since I’m their only son.

I asked what have I done?
Papa’s knees fell to the floor.
Since I’m their only son,
Mama shut the bedroom door.

My Body is a Text


Why did you never mention the scars rippling across my
milky arms? You didn’t ask about the sharp vertebrae
leaving a trail of bruises down my back. Did you not
care enough to see despair engulf my pupils?
As a child, I learned to swallow the sad words,
the hard words, and force them into my stomach.
I still gave you signs.
I painted questions on my canvas.
And your silence gave me every answer I needed.

Spaghetti Dinner

The slick strands of angel hair and the taste
of earthy tomato paste on my tongue brings me back
to my grandmother’s house, where I am far too old
to be crying into my napkin for my mother.

I am too big to be coddled and tucked into bed,
too mature to have a scratchy afghan drawn up
around my chin. But when I try to say I’m okay,
the words will not crawl past my teeth.

Choices and possible regrets

Sometimes we make choices that we know are not the best choices,
but we do not intend to create a living hell for ourselves.
Sometimes we decide to do something that is not the best option
for our bodies, our minds, for those we care about.
We don’t choose to lead ourselves down a path of darkness and pain.
We believe that this, somehow, will help.
Or we believe that this, somehow, will give us a brief respite
from the hell that we feel we already live in.