The birds were flying everywhere
They came to me in
An email
Flock to bbg
And see what we have to offer your
So we showered
And dressed
And drove to
Hear a story badly told
Our roost
Moving quickly to the nest building table
Two brown eggs were made
Symbolizing the dove’s creative and feminine energies
And arriving back home
There were two pruning
Sitting on my fire escape
Red bellies
I took a few pics and sent them to my dad
He said very surely they are
My totem
For femininity
A day of
Messages to let us know
We’re right where we belong
You are right here with us
The freedom
To be ourselves
And keep going


heart strings

the cycle will begin again
I mean
it keeps on going
the months have passed
two to be exact
and I have watched your little face grow
your cheeks have become plumper again
and your little eyes have gotten wider
I can tell that you know just a little bit more
about how this world works
fascinated by its invisible strings
watching all the while and learning
how we do things
but I know
down there in your new, pink heart
you’re the one with all the secrets
with all the knowledge of the universe
and you have me
my heart
on its own puppet strings
you pull those cords
and I come running
and I will


this has been an off year.
something about it
always leaves a sour and/or bitter taste in my mouth.
I haven’t had a “good” feeling in a while,
and even when I am among my family
my sisters
my brothers
there is a lingering dread
the one that consumed for years
the one that told me that I’m not good enough
strong enough
to make it through anything.
They say that a woman is interrupted so many
more times than a man
and that even if a woman says something
it is the man that gets the credit for it
they say we have to love our daughters in such a way
to teach them how to love themselves
without relying on the age-old edict
that they are “pretty”
We have to re-learn how to talk to them,
essentially talking to ourselves,
and I find myself questioning my motives
my inner-voice
my intuition
what am i really teaching myself
or rather
what am I really doing?
am I avoiding the lesson I need to teach
in fear that I am repeating the same mistakes
as my mother?
or am i really breaking the cycle,
creating a new chain
starting the beginning of a new line of me?
of us

Sunday Night 7:30 pm

Running around.
A sort of frantic calm
to and fro
We’ve moved the bamboo cabinet
a little higher
and I’ve surrendered to the idea
that you don’t want to move the
towel rack a little higher too
All the while she’s crying
fixing for something more–
Now she’s up–
We’ve given her a bath
She likes the warm water
running down her small belly
her chubby arms
her fragile hair
And so more food
we diligently prepare
Almost somnambulist like
We’ve put the bottle in her mouth
I pass you in the kitchen as you
take another picture of the sunset
A bright yellow light shines through
a hole in the cloud
a message that in the mundane
we’ve found God
She’s right here
in my arms–

Saturday Morning Sleeping

Everyone is sleeping–
My dear husband on the coffee
colored bed, white shirt, blue shorts,
black socks,
hands tucked under the same coffee
colored pillow–
Resting, eyes glued for a short matter of time
slight smile of surrender to
the neediness of sleep–

Black cat in a c shape on the lilac floor
Cute button nose
She can sleep for hours and hours
hidden underneath red blankets
in hot or cold weather
We know she’s there
Her disappearing act
not quite working–

Small fragile baby in her white slated crib
the same lavender lilac adorning her sheets
the only one who is slightly stirring
her need for food not regulated yet
She can’t go hungry
Dreaming of the outer space whence she came from
Recalling the secrets she had to leave behind
Filing them away for another day of de ja vu
Communicating with another source
The umbilical cord still being cut
Slowly but surely she’ll be one of us soon
and her alien blood will almost but all disappear
hiding like a husband or a cat on the floor–


The day has almost passed
I’m lying on the crimson colored bed
dreaming of your violet sanctuary
in the next room over:
Where the cherry blossom decal will go
Where the “C is for Cat” picture will hang
If I want to add the pink and lilac ribbon garland
above your head
and whether or not your tiny books
need bookshelves–

You and your mother are almost done
building the honey colored breakfast nook
Sage green cushions wait to be sat on
Zoya, our cat, has already tested them out
We think we might have gotten a wrong part
And so, my patience is being tried–
But it’s fine
I think
it will be fine–

It is fine.

Divine Alchemy (or Everything will turn out okay)

Divine alchemy
resting on the shores of the placenta

The child looks up to the new organ
the only creation she sees for nine full months
in awe of
this magical tree of life,
pink, red, pulsating, bloody, veined nutritious glory
for you–

like a tiny elephant in the womb,
we’ll all bask in its nourishment

we are
(you will be)
e x  t   r    a     p      o       l        a         t          e           d
trusting in the sacred process
trusting in the holy communion
trusting that
will turn out simply
and lusciously

Mr. Holbrook

Synchronicity abounds
this weekend
in dreamy Pisces
I still see glimmers of you
images here and there
conjuring up in my mind’s eye
your soul
awakening and reawakening

You called my husband too
to take pictures of you
of things you loved–
Walls covered in love graffiti
warm, bright days
and blue skies with soft, white clouds–
Sometimes your voice and your
messages are so clear
we know what to do
and when to do it

Other times
we’re not so sure.
We don’t “currently”
have enough
access to the
ancient knowledge
or wisdom of the sages–
something you probably
have in your spiritual
back pocket by now
What were you trying to tell us
this past weekend?
Did I miss something
in the sacred hallway
or is everything just so
is everything
just right?

And your Dawn keeps awakening
in man to another
This one here, just an illusion
Caught in between
two worlds
we saw another way
we saw
a sliver of


I remember asking my grandmother
why we had roaches.
She told me it was because of
the other people in
the building,
not us.
I guess that made me feel
a little better about who we were
and our role in the projects
in the Bronx
in the world.
We weren’t dirty
Others were.
We weren’t to blame
Others were.
The message rang loud and true
for years:
The differences between “us” and “them.”
Consistently breaking free of
socioeconomic shackles,
my mother’s three sisters and
two brothers ran away from home very
early, leaving my mom to take care of
her mother, leaving her mother to
take care of me
and it’s been quite some time since
I’ve thought about those tiled floors
that blackened my feet
or the wall of lush plants that guarded
the windows
or the howling winds from the hallway
moaning their way through crevices under
the front door–
or the roaches that crept on the floor
next to the cat bowl.
We both played with them
(Our little toys)
They’ve scuttled back into our lives
in a way that makes me question this
cyclical dance,
The semi-circle of my belly
mimicking the trajectory of all of our lives
and I–
I just want what’s best for my kid
better than I had
and then some–

Laughter from the Kitchen

Nose running
Laughter from the kitchen
But I’m not laughing
Sour face
You think it’s funny
But last night I suffered so much
and couldn’t sleep for hours
Your sudden joy
a desecration of my wasted time
and hot