Rippling Through the Dark

The poem title is borrowed from a line in a poem by Sasha Pimentel.

my mother wakes at night
to clean the dishes. The dog
on his back snores as she passes
through the living room
like a ghost in a floral night
gown. She’s always been
the elusive love in my life—
expansive as memory
over a battered body. The moon
dignified in the sky peers
through the kitchen window with
the will of all its light. Light
traipses through water and water
envelopes my mother’s hands.
How her hands have torqued
my dark body—a kind of light
I’ve never understood illuminating
the past: Here are my mother’s
hands scrubbing my dirty dishes.
Here are my mother’s hands
clutching a belt like a horse breaker.
Here are her hands holding
the larynx of a broom, punishing
my body like god. My God,
who loves me and clutches me
by the throat, says—I’ll beat you
like a bitch off the street.

“a poem for Justin" and Two Poems

because you asked me your first word /
& i said i didn’t know /
& i could have told you a good lie /
& made that a small poem we share.

Queen of All Spaces

Our dining room table is the queen of all spaces in our home.  It carries our fears and secrets.  It offers us a place to eat our meals, sit, rest, and reflect.