Sunday morning sneaks into my bed
with hurried steps muffled by footy pyjamas.
Two warm bodies still smelling of dreams,
of innocence, burrow under the covers,
each cuddling into the warmth and reassurance
found beneath a protective wing and good-morning kisses.
Eyes still shut against an undecided day,
hearing only our breathing in unison—my favorite moment—
melded together, like before they were born.
Then sleep is chased away. Yawns are replaced by giggles.
Words are whispered and spirits ignite.
It is a morning of blanket tents and tickles.

“L’amour est un je ne sais quoi qui vient de je ne sais où, et qui finit je ne sais comment.” -Mlle de Scudéry

Children’s laughter floats
like smoke from birthday candles
and lofty balloons.

*****

Bright
leaves
release
their branches,
fly with a flourish,
then come to rest. What an exit!

*****

My brother, his son
chocolate against milky white
Love has no color.

My grandmother used to spend her afternoons making quilts, fitting pieces of our lives together like a puzzle. My brother’s outgrown shirt, my torn skirt, my parent’s worn sheets all served as raw materials to her creations. Fuelled by her Yankee work ethic of waste not, want not, she tied us together with matriarchal thread. I used to love to watch the shiny thimble balance on the end of her knotted fingers as they weaved the needle so expertly back and forth, resulting in what could only be qualified as a patchwork masterpiece, love in every stitch.

At 92, my grandmother is now fraying, coming apart at the seams. Pieces are missing from the quilt that is her life, and her simple forgetfulness has given way to total confusion and blank stares. She sits bewildered, befuddled, no longer recognizing us, but there is no solution to this quandary. To comfort her, I raise the quilt a little higher around her shoulders, surrounding her with pieces of us, wrapping her in her puzzlement.

Repressed and compressed,
Anger accumulates inside me
like a ball of yarn,
with superimposed layers
of disappointment,
conflict and absorbed aggression,
intertwined with incomprehension.

The knots in my stomach
untie themselves slowly
with each deep breath I take.
I tug gently on the thread with my pen,
coax out the wrath by writing.
The ball unfurls, shrinking imperceptibly at first,
transforming red and black strands of anger into ink,
and I knit words across the page,
leaving an empty space within called relief.

“Une maman qui meurt, c’est une bibliothèque qui brûle.”

–Marc Levy Et si c’était vrai…

An invincible body taut from exercise,
sweat dripping from temples to asphalt.
Two years ago—only nineteen—immortal.

My legs breezed me past a spot on the road
where a bird lay, the life knocked out of it.
Life oozed out and spread itself on the tar.

I stopped in my tracks, not wanting death
to ooze out on me, corrode my hands,
invade my body, spread over me like a fungus.

I ran away breathless and cowardly,
but I couldn’t outrun the shadow
of that bird in my conscience.

Now, I wince in the fluorescent light
of my hospital room, immobilized
against the odor of sanitized sheets.

Bit by bit, the cancer hollowed me out,
dug a canyon inside me that echoes
when I scream my despair across it.

The disease evicted me from my body,
a pale shell with sunken eyes,
bloated cheeks and awkward limbs.

I’m merely a tangential witness
to its destruction, its disintegration,
waiting for the paralyzing, maddening pain to end.

Relief. I’d hoped death would come like this.
Just a body turning cold after too much running,
waiting for a familiar bird to raise me on its wings.

“The more people realize that we do not live on this planet of ours in isolation—that ultimately we are all brothers and sisters—the more likely is progress for all humankind, rather than for just parts of it.”

-Dalai Lama of Tibet in Freedom in Exile

Hot
red
pepper
stings taste buds,
ignites a passion
that only you can extinguish.

***

rice
clove
curry
cardamom
and coriander;
India is in my kitchen.

Dear Brent (sweet love of my life),

After our three years (of paradise) together, these last few (dark) days have been (unbearably) strange (and painfully lonely) without you around. You are often (no, constantly) in my (obsessive) thoughts, but we both (except me) agree that it’s (not any) better this way. We (surely) want different things. We’ve grown apart (you flew the coop). This just wasn’t (what I) meant to (say) be(cause I’m missing you so much). After all, being single is like riding a bike, right? You never forget how (to feel alone and rejected).

I’m writing because (I’m desperate and) you left behind a few things (like your brand on my heart and my empty arms). I’m not sure whether you could come over (and try being “us”again) or if I should drop them off (the face of the Earth—myself included)?

What can I (possibly) say (to make you change your mind)? I (don’t) understand (at all) how you feel, and I hope we can still be friends (and lovers and grow old together). Let’s do lunch (and dinner and breakfast and tea and late-night-popcorn-in-front-of-the-tv-huddled-together-under-a-blanket) sometime.

(In)Sincerely yours (forever),
D.

(P.S. Please hear what I’m not saying.)