you’re not going to tell me the truth because it might hurt me

(these things often do)

The fact that I choose to be

vulnerable

to be naked

out of my mind

out of my skin

The fact that I choose to be

brazen enough

to pretend that it is anything else but this

embarrassing intimacy

passing between us

under the guise of cool glances

it is you who hold the power

the reins stretched out across the stadium between us

I have spent so much time trying to find a way

to cut them

(from a while ago with a little tinkering)

In all the streets of Paris the sirens are sounding
Notre Dame is burning, Notre Dame is burning
And then in chars suddenly
all the holy stone in chars
white stone ashes
heavy palms
Notre Dame is burning in the calm

The little boy on the bridge, the woman 
on her phone. Notre Dame is burning,
there are flames in our home and it is no
fault but our own. (The willow is weeping by the Seine that flows idly by, 
Notre Dame is burning and we don't know why)

a deep fear of the future
of the names of shadowy children
coats that reach our ankles
to hide them from the sun
all the windows are mirrors that don't
reflect my face
director of my mind
lost here writing half poetry
tiny bottles of five year old rum
the face he makes when he comes
up to me and holds my face
his kisses sucked the breath out of my lungs
chewed it slowly like a yellow sponge
in and out we jump and plunge
the scales that sway, dart and lunge
in a lance straight through the heart
the message rolled up tightly
I still love you, this is all a farce
I pull it out and let the blood run out

Why do you keep clawing my skin
if you don't want to come in?

The sirens are sounding over Paris
in waves of goodbyes, life continues as
though there was no fire, as
though there has never been any
burning

 so this is life

in Iowa they tell me

eat more

nourish the body

drip the fat in the hip creases

let a farmer kiss it tenderly

his hand in his back pocket on his keys

i'm waiting for you to come home

like a housewife

reveling in my anger as the greatest motivator

so this is life

loving you and afraid of it

the closeness when we all feel we can't be known

being lonely when you're alone

writing cliches even if, there the truth

specificities about things no one cares about

so this is life

crying on a street in Des Moines

ready to jump

look at my poise

cover my ears

can't stand the noise

 the thing is

doubt everything

lose all your friends because you're too busy

writing lists of things over and over again

they're all the same thing even though each one

feels newly horrifying

repeat them to yourself

almost in a mumble

tell yourself you are being reasonable

even as you feel so unreasonable

caution is not a think you can check off

and you think what about love

there is too much authority

and none of it feels like 

it is yours

trust until you make a mistake

and then tell yourself you couldn't 

have known better even as you

want to take it back

take it back if you can

want to give it in again

can't make up your mind

and it never feels like

there is an answer that

leaves it calm

doing everything you can do

is exhausting

yet you do it anyway

and it wears away

your patience

and you do it anyway.

Feeling full of everything 

you thought you could bring

We spent a year trying to write our names on the wall

Over and over again

Etch them in

Souvenirs, tokens 

Of time stolen

Let me whisper in your ears

It’s better than tears

Little imperfect mementos 

Of all we went through

And standing at the keys I used to try to pause for a moment and tell myself: hold onto this feeling.

these days

i can't focus on anything long enough

to think

still? she says

the question hangs in the air a moment

before i brush it aside with reassurances

cleaning the table, wiping it away

the structure of life tenuous

wood touching wood

waiting for the rot and the wear and the earth

to inhale it all, exhale it out

how can you not care? she shook her by the shoulders

i let her lie to herself a little

we all lie to ourselves a little

pulling down each beam like toothpicks

her wavering breath is a wolf's

it'll probably be fine, she says

and the thing is, I don't know.

my abuela and virginia woolf have the same birthday

and it is today

though the date on her birth certificate might have been wrong

it took a couple days to deliver it from the countryside to the town

she grew up with a lot of siblings

her mother was an angel on her throat

these days sometimes i want to walk into the water

fingering stones in my pockets like little sorrows

like little angers, look, here it hurts, look, here it hurts

maybe she collected rocks from the dusty road on the way back from school

her dress in the wind in the dirt the horses going by, pasando, pasando, pasando

these days sometimes i feel like i am already in the water

but my abuela she is always on land 

her voice is land her voice is red rock not white rock like a mauseoleum

when she says, "Si Dios quiere"

when we talk on the phone

the other night i dreamt my abuelo was alone with me in the car

he drove us off red rock into the ocean

and then he reversed us out again

my tío says i should tell my abuela about this dream

that dominicans know how to decipher things like this

that abuela maría taught her, it was all passed down

in the old photograph maría's gaze is like a knife

my abuela's gaze is softer

in the old photograph woolf stares out the side of the page

my grandmother says i look like her

sometimes i worry that one of the women i love the most drowned herself

but the other woman, even as hurricanes, as waters drew close,

even with death on her doorstep, she stays afloat.