Last Word

Before he left,
his finger on my arm
drawing something,
I said it quick: blossom,
but it felt like goodbye.

Lesson for Gluttons

I didn’t

know how to devour
passion fruits

’till he showed me how
to swallow the seeds.


I ask which one
is sad:
the patchouli
or my shoulder.


me try this


in my mouth.

Sex Shop

Love is weird. I struggle
though it feels correct. I’m worried,
so distressed but okay.
Hatred seems the same. I’m seething
mad. I ask about a dildo.

Plum Tree

Stay beneath it

—let the flowers drown you,
taste the droplets,
catch the subtle tickles—

life is still delightful.

Bird Flu

In the cage, two lorikeets,

one is dead, the other silent;

I am torn between saying
it is okay and assuring myself
that, indeed, I am not alone.

Water and Sugar

We would pick
lemons—when wild daisies
not in season.

He did know how
to squeeze them—gentle.



I finished
jilted on
the plate.

Gluttony in the Orchard

I always mistake nectarines for peaches or plums
for apricots, one thing clear and common, succulence,
the rawness of sugar dripping off my chin
when my tongue swivels between the bows of my lips
I slightly open and a fly around me waits for its turn.

Out of the Blue

When he stopped stroking my face,
I thought my light drugstore makeup was melting
or a zit I didn’t notice repulsed,
but when he left without telling me why,

I couldn’t think, if it was my lips or whole existence.


I tried writing you a missive,
but could not bear the noise
of the pen on the thin paper,
like a nail scratching my skin;
hence, I just said it to the air.

Spring Without Him

I smell the bed
sheet, a scent of detergent.

It’s not the same,
no trace of fading cologne,
no hint of the sun or rain.