All September

All September, this city swathed in rain, sorrow has
prospered in the damp air and all the things we have

broken, we cannot put back: not like this monsoon
sky that will reset itself, no scratch, no seam, leaving

us to wonder — if we imagined all the grey mornings
after all the stormy nights, if touch, too, was a dream,

if water was an affliction, if detachment came from
the separation, or fastened itself to the silence (tiny

spores of colourless indifference, growing on a forever
bed of contoured waiting) — if in the molten dark, we

reached to wipe the washed light from the face of the
moon, skin brushing skin, strangers, in the silvery wet?



I was writing a set of “City Poems” last year that was supposed to organically grow into a chapbook of some sort. Of course, 2020 effectively destroyed all creative mind space and everything seems to be on some kind of endless pause. Somehow, from that muscle memory or from a sense of foreboding, this poem has emerged into the light. From comments and discussions, I can tell several poets are struggling to write. One left a message on my blog today that she hoped to be inspired to write again. This is probably the best thing we can do for each other – hope someone finds some words and hope those words will help us find ourselves.

Break open a poem

Break open a poem and time spills out, not
quite like sand from a fist, too small, too tight;

not quite like rain from a cloud that has drifted
too long — break open a moment within a word,

within a line, and all the moments before it spill
out, not quite like the blur from a speeding train:

the contained is rarely smaller than its container –
possession is only a manner of being. Break open

this night, hold its screams apart, see, all the things I
thought I could bear, can no longer bear themselves.

The whole poem you wrote

As if there are words that actually mean what we
think, what we feel: the keyboard is an absurd

compromise, an approximation, the discord between
manifest alphabet and mind is the dark sky of day.

To listen, to read, is to dress the naked body,
impale an ill-fitting soul upon its breast, to tell it

your secret, give it a name. The reader declares
possession, the listener misappropriates pronouns.

Didn’t you say goodbye like an onomatopoeic verb
with nine syllables for retreating footsteps? Wasn’t it

the whole poem you wrote — while all you wanted
was for the moon to interrupt, just one more time?


just to say that
this was meant to be,
I had to believe —
in time,
in the foretelling,
in the inevitable,
in distance,
in the algorithm,
in the universe,
in pain,
in karma,
in sin,
in god

just believing in
you and me,
was never

The morning after the poem

at first light, on a
single sheet of paper, I found
a poem that does not want to be
read, a sky that will not know its
end, a cloud that realized it cannot
resist the wind, and a moon that
longs to scream over and over and over
again that all it can ever see,
is darkness —

the poet, as always,
did not
show up
at the

Hello Earth

Hello Earth,

Here we are again, strangers in familiar positions. A bottle and a half of cheap local wine, you and I and the rain just randomly filling spaces – you, in a helpless orbital crawl, me following you, the rain following us – nowhere to go but back where we started.

Earth, I’m never going so far that I can see you in your entirety. You’re never getting close enough to know what I think. A strange entanglement, this. Different parts of me were different states of matter. Some parts might even have mattered. Yet, the chaotic history of that transformation, the burden of that memory is yours to bear. I can choose to be a flower for the length of a flutter. Or a thorn. Finis. Someday, we must discuss your choices.

Leaning in, I confess your moon has more going for it than you do. Perspective matters. And lighting. The art of distance. The science of inconstancy. The histrionics of a late night show. I wonder if you know how you look from afar, through the darkness. You see, more than the ground beneath our feet, what we need is the probability of flight. That is the thing about love – no, something as real as you, wouldn’t understand love. Magic happens elsewhere. Above both of us.

Listing gratitudes, I see you smile. You think I kneel in your desert, weep in your forest, breathe to the rhythm of your waves, but I still don’t understand you. Then I read someone else’s story about the first snow on the mountain and I cannot sleep for a week. You know I tried writing a poem once, about you. It was you that hid the words.

Offering you this deal: let’s stop for a moment, you and I. Let’s talk in the stillness. They say we are made of the same stardust. Lovers. Soulmates. Sisters. Without names and labels we feign incomprehension. We get lost. So, let’s start there. With names. I’ll tell you mine. Look me in the eye. Hold my hand. As creator, as mother, as life. Who are you, earth? Let’s start there.


Finally! This piece follows the earthhello format, that was introduced to me by Rosemary. Her earthhello prose-poems can be found on her blog and on Instagram


For things we know

Once upon a time, a tree grew at the edge of the highway
from a seed dropped by a careless bird. And every day he

missed the garden, the warmth of roots, the touch of other
leaves, even the song of birds. There must be words in

some languages for such yearning, for things we know
without knowing the words for them. Just points on an arc

of rightness. An infinite horizon that separates the
manifest from the improbable. Isn’t that why the universe

keeps expanding? Isn’t that why spring keeps returning,
why a tree keeps growing, alone, in a garden of moving

cars? Isn’t that why a tree gives up and walks away with its
roots and the moon triangulates that emptiness and sighs?

At the end of the story…

At the end of the story, he had asked her, like he always did, “and what am I in this story?” And she answered, like she always did, “what do you want to be?” The story was about a butterfly and a thunder cloud that were in a fierce race to the end of the world. He thought about it. It was a trick question and she always had a better answer. This was definitely a trap, so he tried to reason. “What could he be? The thunder cloud had only one way to go, the butterfly could both rise and fall.” She looked at him, “you are the clear blue sky on the morning after.” It was their ritual. He could be anything. She could make him anything. The two were always different things.

He remembered another night. Last year, after the rains. Another story. This one was about light and sound in a bitter fight. Light wanted to be heard. Sound wanted to be seen. They couldn’t decide who would was greater. Who would end up stronger.?

“Who am I in this story?”

“Who do you want to be?”

He wondered if silence more awful than darkness. Or if an endless night could be made more bearable by a whisper.

“Who should I be? Wouldn’t you know me even if you couldn’t see me? Hear me?”

“You are time.”

Her breath was warm against his face. Today, it was a tragic story. The moon had a child as bright as the sun. When the child was awake, night turned to day and the moon disappeared. Only when the child was asleep, the moon could appear. They could never be together in the same sky. He cried. Her breath was warmer. He cried harder.

“Who am I in this story?”

“Who do you want to be?”

Whose grief was greater? Who could bear it better – the moon-mother or the sun-child? He didn’t want to know the answer.

“What can I be?”

“When creation is flawed, you must become greater than the mistake.”

He held her closer. She was burning.

“I want to be god.”

If you loved enough

The rhythm of the sea is the incessant wondering –
not if you loved but if you loved enough. An answer

that will only come with loss. The verbs of separation
conjugate in excruciating ways. Grief is a hyphen

connecting empty mirrors. Shouldn’t absence invalidate
a mirror? How much can you love a night not defined

by a moon or stars? Should such a night, be night? You
ask if it is the fault of the sky or the limits of love or of the

imperfect lover? Enduring darkness in the hope that
morning will come, is not love, it is faith in the light.

Love asks for more. At low tide, it asks you who you
are, after taking what you do not have and cannot give.

Act One.

and that scene, over and over: you can be anyone
you like in your own drama, but you choose the

girl spreadeagled on the ground, life slipping
away from her, one truth at a time. Or the one

with wings, hovering above — they look at each
other, with the same eyes, incredulity awash in

fake moonlight, both saying at the same time, “I
know you.” When the curtain drops, there is

silence, or a lone shout, or a nervous whisper, never
the same, never different, and you tell yourself,

that is their drama, they are playing to another
audience. For them, their act may have just begun.