shall we see each other eventually?

Easy to say since the news, anxiety has been breeding dreams fretting in my sleep. No balm to soothe. I replay, in spite myself, the exchange again and again. I could have done 

better. But why. Did it come across as entirely something else? How to. I think about the steam and the propel. And shall I get to see you again. Shall we meet in a cafe, maybe, by the end of some other year. I always do something else in the meantime. Other news arrive. Such as framed joy on other planes. A deadline. A knock. An impatience. And a distance that will have to be crossed by any means. Since when did I feel running out of time. The idea was to remain. And let time run by itself. They say, "in September." It is only becoming June. The last dream, I was somewhere in Malaysia, surrounded by bamboo beds. There is an image of you, your back towards me, on a kayak. Through the water. On your hands a paddle. And we were heading off to some other shore.                       photo by S. Kho Nervez

the number of lives

How many lives do we need
to be (come) what

we always wanted to
be 
with whom we dreamed 

Do cats have
what
they will have eventually?
                    photo by S. Kho Nervez

Anger

is something i have 
in bursts i try to understand
where it is coming from
some remote place
insisting to remain
unnamed---
is something turned
from inside out---
roger does muay thai
to reciprocate 
violence into the cosmos
a channeling out
of fury
a welcoming of pain
we had a good laugh
about his broken heart
how his body wants
to be broken in turn---
three months he says
honeymoon stage i say---
who has the capacity
to take in 
my negative when it hurls
itself dark and unforgiving
angry

on mothers on Mothers' Day

Because I will never be a mother, 
I can never bear
the true weight of the world. 

The Poor

Who are the poor? It depends
who is defining the abstruse lot
that continually grows
no end, all children
of an absentee god.

An Occasional Prose

Recognising Envy, I chose to stay clear 
from her table where she is entertaining guests.
The lights are low, her jewellery sparkle 
her loose bun calling attention to her nape, also
inviting fingers to finally unfasten all that hair.

Solitude

photo by J. Pinzon

This kind of solitude makes the hours long. 
I take what I can take: a passing thought,
a banana ripe in its own time, a part of a part
of a scene playing out outside the window.

The summer is both long and short.
We check our calendars, look for moments 
to get away: from where, to where
Who knows? It seems

only the plants are truly unconcerned.
Quiet and steady, palms always open
for both light and dark.