I blush when she says I’m gay.
And she freezes because that’s not the routine of the joke.
There’s blood in my cheeks and my hands and my vision and I laugh.
And she asks me again—
not kidding.
And I see it all.
God’s face staring down after years in a Baptist church. Mom saying she never took us to the services enough. Mammaw telling me she’d have a heart attack, Grandma mentioning that poor waiter.
Words are power; but feelings are just unfinished thoughts. I shouldn’t make concrete out of questions, so I laugh again.
The laugh is not the 17 year old laugh she knows.
She knows.
dry kisses (8/20/16)
I have something they call
a melted heart.
A vicious form that glides through my chest,
sliding through a vacant cavity,
never sticking,
never committing.
Long ago, this heart was solid,
secure in its skeletal home,
in its protected castle.
It used to open its gates
letting others see its whole
smooth,
hard candy surface.
Sweet to the tongue,
and warm.
A taste that left roses,
red,
on your cheeks.
But flowers wilt and fade,
melting back into the earth
where nothing
nothing but the dirt of their toes
remain.
Deep within my chest,
now,
are the tendrils of once was.
The petrified roots,
soured with poison,
dead, but remaining.
Try to brush your lips against it,
try.
And feel the thorny bristle that’s replaced
the softness,
A dull notes that whispers a soft negation.
Please,
no.
lavender tears
when i close my eyes,
i'm wrapped
--enveloped--
in you.
your warmth layers my skin
with a fragrance of comfort,
of safety.
i cling to this
in the stillness of the dark.
hot tears and a warm chest
confused passion and despair.
a love reciprocated.
so i draw a bath.
the warmth,
to embody your arms.
the suds,
to calm my heart the way
your soft kisses do.
with glassy eyes and lavender tears
i breathe.
im Waxahatchee still in
the water, alone,
lacking.
am i lacking?
yet,
submerging myself in the bubbles
isn't the same
as laying my head on your chest.
isn't the same as wrapping my legs around you
as we hide inside a cocoon of blankets.
isn't the same as brushing my lips against your skin
to comfort you.
to comfort me.
when i close my eyes,
im with you.
Puerto Rico
What does it mean to be Puerto Rican? It's abuela in her bata and beaded chancletas making enough arroz con gandules to feed the entire block. It's owning several banderas to dance and decorate la casa with. It's empanadas sold on the street for a dollar, begging your mamí for a dollar to buy from the coco stand after school, it's family bonchinche and watching novellas and Caso Cerrado on a humid afternoon. We are descendants of warriors, Taíno Natives, who respected the fertile island. It's sipping on a strong coquito or piña colada after a long day at work, browning arms after picking the yucca and plataños for tonight's meal, seasoning the freshly killed pet guisao with adobo and sazón. It's a feeling of the coqui song resonating in your heart, the island tugging you back to the homeland, and never wanting to leave Puerto Rico ever again.
Good times
A drunken topple
Onto my own vomit
Now I feel awful
This I do admit
But you were lovely
The way that you sway
You, on top of me
How I love you that way
Now that we're done
And puke on my shirt
I truly had fun
Getting under your skirt
An exotic encounter
Delivered with pride
Your money's on the counter
My Uber is outside