the poetic taste of un-words


this morning I hung your clothes on the small line in the backyard, with the string that you showed me how to pull so that I can let the line back down alone.

hands cool and damp from the clothes I placed new rinsed into the basket. basket to hip, and into the sun. the sun that is learning ways around us, our shadows in its way. seeping into our skin.

the sun that fell in diagonal patterns across the slatted wood at the side of the house. my toes on cement and brushing against grass that pokes its way through the large tiles. clothes in my hands. fresh-rinsed from sweat.

this morning you hung my clothes on the small line in the backyard, with the basket sat on the porch and clawing through to find the largest pieces to hang first. and on the ground a lizard made its way through the beams of wood on the veranda and into the light to bask in contented solicitude with the sound of passing cars. the way you do.


of all the poem-people

that have touched my skin

you have written —— and unwritten

more words

by speaking silence

than others do in all

their wailing



here I am


the same meal of sauce, garlic, red wine, onions and shallots, over pasta

with oil and the sweet olives my mother taught me to buy.

the same meal I have cooked many a time. for others, too.

this time

there is no transience to the way the pasta curls

the water stays clear. it does not muddy. I pour the oil over it and scoop it into bowls. it is perfect.


when I would like to lay; in the earth. as a sepulka (sepulchre). i will be instead here in this place.

when my hands would rather curl themselves into bones. i will light candles for you.