Your watermelon vine fingers
Caress my sunflower stalk spine.
We dig our trowel toes into the lome
Of my mattress,
Cover our shoulders in frost-evading fleece.
I hear your heart ripen under your skin.
I smell the heat inside your lungs
Growing and expanding in the August crisp.
You seed a whispered kiss on my lip.

You are planted inside me,
digging into me,
And I bind to your stem
With my peach flowered palm.
We bloom at the first ray of morning as
I weave deeper into your trellis arms.
Our breaths match the pull of the wind.
You touch your forehead to my breast,
Our stems heaving.

Here we grew our love.
Here we grew the foundation of our separation.

Doves sit in the square of marble,
and sunlight entombs the jewels
on top of the holy crescent – Islam,
a world full of white dotted capes
and those who pity on Jihad know this,
they are blind to his faith, his pattern
to lay in the glory of Muhammad,
hooking the world with blistering sins
9/11 a myth around, Syria to my heart,
the world sits abound to watch the hate
and the racist get away with my skates,
poorly lit candles line the streets
to the road defining my conscience and fee,
a long stubble of fleece flee the marketplace
eaten by the souls in Ramadan and Eid,
Europe is caught by the chaos, sadly odd
but satisfying for the gloomy eyes staring
at the long pages of Quran – Allah O Akbar….
I set my feet apart to the horizon of Qawwali
a prayer on the mat of holiness and a play-
ground for my state.

Dear J,
   I may be at a loss for words half the time, and the other half I might have too much to say, but I can almost always say this; I love you. I have felt fear and I have felt bravery and I have felt loss. I can look pictures of us and I can recall everything we did that day. I can listen to videos of you and I can tell what you felt. And I know that you didn't think I was paying attention, but I knew how you looked when you thought something was unfair. And I knew the look in your eyes when you saw the light just right in a sunset and you knew that nothing could ever be recreated quite like that. I felt the same way about you.
   Wherever you are, know that loving someone isn't a matter of feeling something or not feeling something. It's a matter of knowing what you're feeling and when you need to let go.
   I think that people know that letting go involves unfurling your fingers and watching something fall from a great height. It's the act of following that objects downward motion that gets to us. That once it meets the ground or whatever surface it is deemed to hit, it's gone. What was there is gone. And once you think about that you think of what could have been there. That one last touch, that one last feeling of bliss that comes with knowing that the moment you wake up the sun will be shining in rivulets through fingers that tangle in hair fresh off the pillow. It's sad to know that nothing like that will happen again.
   The sun won't shine the same way. Instead it may simply fall. It won't cascade, it won't flow over the edges of noses or smiling lips. It's the same way water may lose a stone from a riverbed and from there on after it doesn't run quite the same way. But another stone, another pebble will fall in place because replacement happens.
   I guess what I'm trying  to say, is that letting go is letting someone else take a spot. In order for something else to happen you have to let your joints move out of their grip and unfold from their hold on something that wasn't meant to be held by you anymore.
   Sometimes you have to let them land somewhere new.
I only hope that it's somewhere even more beautiful than before.
            Claire

Usually, when he
touches me, I
pull away

Today,
I leaned in
held on

My breath
became
thin

My stomach,
dropped,
tightened

It was as if
he was always
meant to be there

I wish I knew
what that
means

Something flows in the wind that blows
vibrations transform the world around.
But not all souls are so privileged to know

The subtleties of a force so profound.
Dancing among the molecules
Of oxygen and light and sound,

Value surpassing precious jewels.
A present in its present state,
Presented to wise man and fool,

A gift to he who contemplates.
Sun shimmering about the world external
new sense of warmth now radiates

Gently, inwards it flows eternal,
To semblance of peace does it return you.

And songs beautiful as young blind love,
Jingle, whistle, over distant hill
Mirroring the plains and stars above.

Birds are creatures that instill
A sense of wonderment and pleasure.
Sat on branch in forest, or on windowsills,

Knowing not their beauty in its measure.
Having no sense of pride or vanity
unaware they possess the richest treasures,

Their song will become my own eventually.
Melodies so immense, simple and moving,
Like darkness now envelop me.

Mother night so welcoming and soothing,
In your embrace I banish all my brooding.

He dances to the rhythm of her heartbeat.
He waltzes around to the sound of her breath.

She keeps distance and readies her stance,
As he dips her to the ground and twirls her back into his arms.

They dance for as long as their song can last
For they both know, once they're off the stage.. They'll always remain apart.

This is Eighteen the size of thirteen,
with the ego of twenty something stupid
"we are young heartache..."
to heart ache we stand - love and life
and the streets
we breathe and eat
everything seems like "a battle field"
still I look for myself
asking who dat? --inside
the mirror and the heart
who am I ?
Love is rain, life's battlefield
my thirst
droplets on the window pane
thunder outside
rolls hollow from inside mine...

On the other side of my bedroom door
opposite George Michael's poster
faithfully ****
a married couple argue
about money, about fidelity, about anything
that leaves the blame
on the one who feels more empty
but somehow
momma's too smart of a mouth
wakes the Kraken
and a drunken man is not a man
when he loses sight
as his manly fists lands an eye
a cheek, a lower lip

This is eighteen the size of thirteen
defense against a wall of baller height of 6'6''
I crash against wood and tile
in a haze of screams and electric sting of pain
the smell of beer
and falling purple rain
from the iron blow of fathers
drowning his demons
inflicting pain
rather than feeling himself
his jealousy has morphed into a vicious wolf,
blind with red hate...

From the floor I grip her hand
our eyes speak with one another
as we wept and I vowed this - the last
time he hurt my mother
or any other...

Prince on the FM, a deeper rain
with a perfect anthem
for those darker days

When our tears were so deep
they stung
our hearts in its flood
purple rain and blood

this was Eighteen
the size of two hearts growing up
Gettin'
strong...

i met jesus today.
he didn’t care what
it said on his sweatshirt
the brand. the design.
it was in english.

we looked each other
in the eyes after a sweaty
game of soccer on the
dirt field with a size 4 ball.

and called each other
mentirosa for adding points
to our scores that weren’t
really made. beaded black eyes.

didn’t need anything i was
used to. didn’t want anything that
wasn’t there. ensenada breeze.
mi maestro en español.

i, his teacher of english.
jesus and i bonded for
at least 4 hours. as
the ten-year-old
gave a ‘don’t go’
look but with a
confident
expectation
that
i

would beg to
come back.