His steelworker hands

would catch my baseball

ungloved.

We never hugged,

never needed to.

We’d shake hands,

and I’d feel who he was.

Our memories are fickle things

that time disintegrates;

we're left with snapshots that we string

together, weaving lace.

The tightest loops play back with ease,

releasing dopamine,

evoking whiffs of deli cheese

and meats on Christmas Eve.

The thread, as soft as frosted bulbs

that fade from blue to white,

enfolded carols, laughs, and love-

a symphony of light.

Small stitches caught the bite of clove

and cousins running 'round

a table draped in cigar smoke

as thick as winter clouds.

The bobbins twisted, covered pins

like presents tied in bows-

for everyone a single gift:

a mem'ry spun from gold.

I wish I could say

I have had a happy memory with you

but every one is stained

with anger

with darkness

with blood.

Mother,

why couldn’t you

just let me smile?

For once you were

caring

but you let

the moment slip away

when you decided

there was nothing wrong

with a punch

(physical and emotional).

Why,

why must you be this way?

I’m sick of dealing with a child

I’m tired of dealing with your conflicting moods.

(and I know you will never change but I still hope).

I want to love you

and I know you want to love me too

but it's hard

(you are mentally not fit to be a mother).

So I think I will take

these broken

memories

(these sunny, burning, painful memories)

and leave

you

for good

so that I may never have

to endure the blistering

a g o n y

of betrayal.

(but I won't leave, because I have to protect the younger ones from having memories like the sun)

Fairylights and a Van Gogh poster,

You said kissing in my room meant kissing ‘under the stars’.

Now we’re packed tight in my single bed,

Lying like matches in a box,

Or the last two cigarettes in your pack.

Artificial starlight, now artificial moonlight,

The soft blue silhouette of your body against my alarm clock.

Smooth edges and crisp lines.

Angel wing shoulder blades, and unruly black curls.

And me, awake.

My college student body clock

And your new 9to5 job,

My weeks of 4am, black coffee assignments

And your parade of midday clients,

Your deep sleep breath,

And my acute fear of transience.

And the two of us in bed,

Alone

Together.

The Reverend Gregory Thompson was awake. As he did every night, the Reverend stared into the blackness while oblivious to its presence around him. He gazed through the darkness with a tunnel-like vision, peering beyond it, and into a singular memory which played for him in technicolor on its other side, a memory that shone beacon-like, carrying him back forty years, back to the day when it became obvious to him that his wants and desires must be stashed away in the deepest depths of his mind lest they derail it all; his future, his mission, his eternity. He had kept those wants and desires hidden away now for much the better part of his life it should be noted, but for that one April afternoon, that one indelible Sunday in Miami when some force of nature, be it in the name of good or evil, had allowed him to realize them.

Like it was yesterday the Reverend recalled how his clerical collar scratched at the razor burn on his neck as he roasted hatless beneath a tropical sun. He recalled how the women and children in swimsuits and flip-flops gave him a wide berth, as though he were begging for money, rather than trying to help them... to save them even. He remembered the colorful, frozen cocktails the women carried down the boardwalk even though it was only one o’clock in the afternoon, and how those women averted their eyes as they passed him by. His cheeks burned as he recalled the way the more muscular men silently warned him away before he had even spoken to them. And then there were those others, the ones who politely accepted a prayer card only to drop it to the sun bleached boards once safely past the “crazy preacher-man.”

But then he saw her there before him once again, slicing quickly and easily through the tourist throngs, just as she had done on that day, just as she did every night since, her smile for him alone, the buttons of her blouse straining as though she were overripe. Her skin was toasted brown, her eyes and hair dark, as a latin woman’s are. “Jou are too hot, mi predicador. Come conmigo... I cool jou.”

She had taken his hand in hers. He had followed her pretty, bare feet into a dark cantina where she sat across from him at a table for two. An old man with compassionate eyes poured iced sangria into a tall glass. A ceiling fan creaked above, blowing soft air against his wet skin. Her plump, red lips cooed words he could not understand. He slouched in his seat, the sun having drained him of energy. He drank the sweet wine she held to his mouth, and he bit into orange and lemon slices offered to him by delicate fingers, slices sweeter even than the wine, slices that burst with tangy syrups when punctured by his teeth. He sat patiently for her ministrations, leaning in while her quick fingers wiped the stray juices from the corners of his mouth and lingered there after, as though tempted to enter.

He could still recall most every moment; the way her eyes never left his, the wooden banana crates stacked haphazardly against the back wall and ready to tumble, the smell of frying tortillas, and the sound of happy laughter from the sidwalk. He remembered the feelings of desire, and guilt, and drunkeness. He remembered how his heart raced in a way it never had before, leaving his head light, and his groin heavy. He remembered the desperate urge to get away, and the even stronger urge to stay... and he remembered the bare foot and toes that found their way up to his lap under the table, kneeding him, massaging away any remaining resolve.

He remembered more wine, and then a dark, narrow staircase with loose, creaking steps. He remembered rounded, swaying hips barely concealed by a light summer skirt. He remembered her face as she turned to look at him with eager eyes, their excitement feeding his. He remembered a dimly lit room with dust hanging in the valance. He remembered soft lips, and a probing tongue. He remembered pressing his own lips tight to keep the tongue out, but it had pried, and probed before slithering serpent-like inside. He recalled dueling with it before succumbing, whipping and lashing it with heavy breaths.

The Reverend remembered the way her bare skin felt against his, cool and soft... how the darkness of it contrasted with the pale of his, and how he had absorbed the smells of her perspiration and her woman’s cassolette, exhaling them reluctantly. He remembered her nipples carressing his thighs, and his chest, and he recalled bursting directly before he died.

He woke from death on a beach, where he laid bathed in a tangerine twilight, shoeless, walletless, even his clerical collar gone, but those things were of little matter. There were people walking the beach; lovers holding hands, taking him in, but not approaching; curious people, maybe even concerned people. He remembered walking into the water to wash away the smells, and the feels, and the sins, but he found that sand and saltwater could not scrub some things away.

Forty years later those things still lingered in the dark of night, those sins, and sensations. Forty years later her nipples still carressed his skin, and her tongue still probed, looking for a way inside. She might have been a devil, that woman, but he would have sworn she was an angel, his angel, who showed him what it was to be a man. He remembered her lessons well, every night of his life. It was a feeling he hoped never to forget... not ever, and so he worked to remember.

Even when called home, the Reverend Thompson was certain that he would remember. He had faith that he would remember, just as he had faith in his God, and in a life after death. The Reverend Thompson needed to believe that love was forever, both when he was a man, and when he was not, and so he prayed to his loving God every night before invoking the memory of a sinful, earthly love.

The heart of her home

was her kitchen

and the heart of the family

was her.

Uncles, cousins

and postmen delivering

gather for Saturday soup

and "McGyver."

Ten fingers,

ten toes

two eyes

and a nose

healthy cry

tiny feet

little mouth

with which to eat

No happier in life

will I ever be

than this moment,

she thought lovingly.

Some years later

she finds she was wrong

listening as accolades

of her son are sung –

No happier in life

will I ever be

than this moment,

she thought lovingly.

Then, one day

she hears him interviewed

he praises his dad’s diligence

and his mom’s kindness, too –

heart bursting with pride

and joy at his words

filled with delight

for the views that she’s heard

No happier in life

will I ever be

than this moment,

she thought lovingly…

Perhaps this is it

the “happiest” days are behind

the beautiful memories

just shadows in her mind;

she’s still hopeful the burdens and sorrows to come

won’t obscure the joys of the past;

the key will be to remember with fondness not sadness,

to make the essence of the happiest days ever last.

He lives in a pineapple under the sea

sometimes it rains beneath the deep

We know that a sea is mighty and deep

still it rains while I weep

Gravity makes it impossible for such a feet

hydrogen bonds are stronger between water molecules

they would rather be together

to fight the tides in numbers

but when I saw the rain

Picasso-ing its way to Van Gogh

erasing the paste of my storm

It as been on canvass for too long

Uplifted to enter the rain

I look past the sea of pain

Dancing from the depth of my heart

With Mr Crabs, Spongebob and Patrick

Chasing Jellys and crashing cars

I laughed so hard

Because I’m Plankton

you thought I was Squiword

they thought so too

The smell of parchment,

and a pleasant atmosphere.

Words filling my head.

Smalltalk and laughing,

as we share the best of news

over books and lunch.

The warm air is salty on your tongue. Your feet fly across the hot sand. It clings to you but cannot slow you down. The song of the waves beckons you, pulls you inexorably home.

Your next step brings you within their reach, and they lap eagerly at your feet. They tug on your ankles, begging you to join them.

Each step is lighter, easier than the last. The waves wrap you in their cool embrace. You float, weightless. A seagull soars through endless blue sky, and you want to call out to it that you, too, know what it feels like to be free.