While I'm a Young Thing...

I just want to sit at home by myself with a bottle of wine and write and cry about how I’m no Ernest Hemingway.

My Early Christmas Gift

It's not the ring that I wanted, but it was unexpected and it's beautiful and perfect.
He loves me and that's all I really need.

Snoring Afternoon

We giggle at the thought

of that peculiar snoring sound.

Suddenly, I miss home.

Sitting in your arms, I make

the same analogy. Tom & Jerry

and old cartoons with feathers

following the breathing patterns of a sleeping

fat man.

You pretend that's me,

but I only talk in my sleep.

You're the one who lightly grizzles.

You're not as obnoxious as my dad, who was always

sitting on the couch or a chair back home,

snoring like a storm despite how many

folded socks I tossed at him.

I know you're missing how your dad used to snore

on long afternoons, lazily watching golf on TV.

I soothe you while you're sitting

in your chair: send my fingers

through your hair, let you morph into

a child- helpless and wanting- until you fall

asleep with your head buried

in my neck.

Then I hear the light breathy whir- the sound

of your snoring in the afternoon.

No sleep. Just Thoughts.

11:32 P.M.

You swallow your sleeping pill and chase it with a kiss before we lie

down in the darkness, pure dark when electricity first vanishes.

I don't recognize these familiar shapes, even the shape of your body,

only small circles of light burning their piercing colors into my retinas.

I stare at the shadows dancing across the roof as streetlight

streams in through the window. It reminds me, the world is outside.

Voices bustle, murmured

past 2 A.M.

Just lying there. I think about mid-November and the way I cried

about your dad more than you did. That's how we started, or rather,

when he ended. Then I find my mind on January when we first fell apart.

I feel the weight of my limbs sinking lower

into the mattress, into the dent in the side I sleep on.

I notice the strands of my hair set loose

in the sheets (I know how that pisses you off)

and a hazy outline of my face near the wall, adjacent

to the hole that still needs repair; you need it too.

The wall never changes even when everything else does.

We're tucked into these oversized sheets

(too big for a twin bed)

like corpses in a coffin. I feel the dead

weight of your arm across my waist. Heavier, heavier.

My eyes fizzle with the light of the clock.

4:08. Yes, in the morning.

I exhale a sigh of frustration. You're like a secure barrier

keeping me tucked inside the sheets. Trying to, anyway.

I extend my arm across your back and send my fingertips exploring

the vast mountain of your shoulders where you keep the stress, bottled up.

My attempt at comfort. No sleep. Just thoughts of it.

Yeah, you took your damn pills. Your sleep comes more easily now.

But I carry your stress under my eyes. Dark circles. Dark thoughts.

Thoughts of your dead father, buried now for almost four months' time.

Carry the casket, the sorrow. Now I carry part of the blame

for your explanations as to why you run from thoughts of death.

American “hush hush.” Hispanic “lo siento.”

Alcohol and pills: Your survival guide to life.

I just want to fix you; us; this whole complicated scenario.

We're sleeping in his coffin. Sounds so fucking cliché.

7:45 AM- time to wake up.

Ode to My Family's Old Purple Van

In the middle seat

of our burnt purple shell of a minivan,

I sat watching the world flash by time and again.

With enough room in this row for two,

I often sat through the sleepless drives toward

historical destinations on summer trips to Virginia,

Washington D.C., New York City... anywhere really.

My drowsy head rolling sideways

in search of refuge on Amanda's unwilling shoulder.

The bonds of sisterly bickering

on these roadtrips were commonly animated

with a pair of Jessica's adolescent feet

dressed in doll clothing, hanging over the edge

of my retractable armrest.

The itchy patterned fabric was a close friend

- a confidant- who soaked up my tears

and the bitter taste of goodbyes.

Tears for my buried idol, Abuelo.

Tears for words too harshly spoken, sidewalk-chipped teeth,

and for raw elbows and knee-skin

freshly broken on school-ground pavement.

Even tears of laughter trailing back

from sunny daytrips to the beach, sand

buried in the scratchy grey cushions and rugs.

Peeling tint that smelt of melted plastic became a hobby,

easy entertainment on the most tedious drives through

hours of bumpers close to kissing and the thrill

of driving on the part of the road that tilts.

My childhood was in that seat, buckled in tightly

while the world sped past as fluttering shadows

across the drooped rooftop, stopping only at dead

red lights, zooming past any color green through

“orange” (as they'd say), defensive in the ever- expected

traffic of Miami at even the darkest hours, when lights

only flash yellow.

There was always the fight for the front seat,

but I'm disinterested. I want

the middle

where I have full view of everything.

Don't Go to Bed with Wet Hair

I'm almost two feet taller now, but no longer at home.

I don't have the same comfort from the hair dryer's

fiery electric drone.

I used to watch the clock dance for hours

and wish I could sleep. I'd scrunch my toes

in the cold contrast and bunch up my shoulders.

Only simple commands were called out:

“Turn. Left. Up. Down.”

When he had insisted wet hair would make me sick

I hesitantly decided, Dad knows best; Old age made him wise.

So I would stare at the bathroom tiles with a burn

behind my eyes. I knew it was an inevitable

recurring ritual, blow-drying this hefty heap.

Through the wild mess of hair

atop my head, there were but a few chances

to catch a glimpse in the mirror, peeking

through the puff.

Blood rushed to my face as I turned my head

upside-down. The tugging brought tears.

Large fingers brushed my scalp. Heat encroached

behind my ears.

But I secretly enjoyed this painful grooming

though I would never admit it then; when I was

standing a tiny bit taller than four feet.

Hello

Sorry I have been on hiatus for quite a while. I'm going to be posting some older poetry pieces for your enjoyment. Some aren't exactly my favorite, but I hope you enjoy them.