“Guests are like fish.  They start to spoil after three days” 
- Old English Proverb

Now that the fish has spoiled, 
we turn our heads in disgust 
at the stench, 
like rotting eggs. 

We could have fried it 
with garlic and vinegar 
and eaten it with 
fried rice and tomatoes. 

Or cooked it 
in tamarind broth 
with kangkong leaves 
and chili peppers. 

But it took too long. 
And now the maggots 
are the ones feasting. 

How I wished  
you’d left me out 
to dry in the sun. 
I’d have salted myself  
with tears. 

But then I’d last forever. 
 
 

"My feelings for you are like fish hooks in a bowl.  
Every time I try to get one out, all the rest follow... 
so I just leave them be." 
(Meryl Streep, Marvin's Room) 

There are fables 
to fill our nights 
with looking-backs 
and how-it-used-to-bes, 
foreign as they all seem 
now, 
distant though we can 
still hear the sounds and 
smell the scents 
of previous encounters 
of the flesh. 

Fish hooks dangling 
from each other's end 
and cutting wounds  
deeper, 

Blood flows well 
but hardens stiff 
like old lovers 
become stains 
to our lives. 
 
 

The pretense of detachment
is hard to maintain
in this light.
It’s soft, it’s warm, it consumes me
like your kisses mid-breath
mid-touch, mid-heaving.

I am a dipper of water
on a speed train.
The ripples come in circles
from the center going out,
The waves come from edges
going in.

Tip me over, drop a pebble,
break the spell.

Otherwise I’ll just be here,
waiting for the destination.
falling, shaking at each bump
on the track
battling insatiation.
 
 

We are all just wishful thinkers
and mindful wishers
for the spurts of glitter
that come along with the package.

If it was under a tree
we would be like children
hurrying through midnight mass
to get to the main ceremony.
It came to us, too,
in a time of birthing
but this time our mothers
were scorned and not praised.

We are all just wishful thinkers
and mindful wishers
of the joy which comes with the game.

And the gift was just
a spinning top
that would skip and stop
as soon as we mentioned its name.
 

The vinyl coating has peeled.
Rust eats metal, staining orange
the chlorine-soaked cotton 
of your bra.

You don’t notice, after all,
you’re still lifted up
and covered up, 
to be bothered by a few off-colors.

Until it snaps and falls on the floor, 
complete though it can hold you
no longer.
We had to come to breaking to learn
that gravity is fate, or stronger.