one day my ocean will drown you

one day you will drink honey

from my palms

you'll trust me with your tongue

you'll want me to speak for you

under white sheets
for hours there i'll hold you



i'm still not soothed.

your hands don't match

your body

i don't see a soul in you


you can be soft,

but you are a statue of gold

a skyscapper

that reaches only as far as the city

there's nothing here that soothes

you either

we were raised in a silver home.
a bazaar built up
in warmth
in superstitions
in plastic nails
and velvet couches.
with instruments on walls
and carpets
on ceilings. sundays
were for family.
lace tablecloths layered with
lamb,   oil,   dandelions.
the ritual of fire and a prayer with oil.
a light touch on the forehead
from my grandmother's hand.
to lift a curse that can only be
broken by a man
taught by a
woman
filtered through
ancient tongues were about to lose.
i just want to bring her jasmine home;
let it seep into
my doorways
too.
her home's bones
smell of it
how she watches it bloom
at night.
as a child you'd filter through
the white bulbs looking for
the fattest to ****
dry.
take me home
where the jasmine grows
in warm soil, in barrels, in warm village kitchens.


let her gift you with her heirlooms
see how she unfolds them from
their caskets.
how she left them to your hands.
i didn't understand their threads,
the white wool wrapped with thin red
lines,
but then she cried
and all her years
shook inside of her.

your wind battered me until
my hair knotted into
a pile of salt and twine
Upon my shoulders.


i used to kiss the sun.
followed her round for hours
now i'm forced into the
coolness of your rooms
a constant blow off
the sea that i can't seem to shake,
and now i can't see my sun.


tonight, surrounded by linen
my dress billows into the ocean;
like silk and paint and water


maybe i just missed the sun
the heat, the ocean, the tide.
maybe i just myself in the mirror
and on my search to find her
i found my bones
buried in a place i didn't know.
surrounded by a forest of pine
and charred wood.
a damp forest with sage and thyme.

you know nothing of worry
you're made of dark matter
and of static


i see a dark green
when i think of you
-it's speckled with
the fear (in red and brown)


i see a bright blue when i
think of you
but your worry is yellow
and your kindness is clear
and stars don't align with you
everything is
struggle and heavy
it's dark with you.

you're muddled and
you're empty
at the same time

what can i do to my mediterranean
blood to tame it for you
how can i tie up my thousand years
and strain it like you want me to.
why won't you let me bleed of
my ancestors
your gold is still too bright for me
and i need silver in my hands again

your thinness makes me feel
that you're not made of
leather,
that your hands are too soft,
that you can't understand the mud
and the ocean at your feet


your body was not made for mine.
you are 900 years behind my body,
and i'm not sure i can be your guide.

(your faint moon makes me want to
cry)

when i die pour me into the veins
of an olive tree
let me grow from pits and fruit
heat me with my oil
steam me with the sea
let me grow from ancient
bones
where i'll wait until you're ready
to be fed by my silver

three thousand years i lay
intact
no wonder i am magic.

you studied my legs
my arms
while i only saw my thinness,
my translucent wrists, my tapered
ankles
you saw my wonder
i could only paint your trees for
you.
i wouldn't dress for you but i would
throw rosemary to your fire
built you mountains out of yeast.
it wasn't anything like love
but it was trust
thank you for noticing,
i noticed it too