Poem-a-Day

After leaving my old life
I return often

the way a dried
chickpea

soaked overnight
comes back

to its first form,
not the same as

floating all along
in the aluminum

of origins.
My brain has

suffered a wake
turbulence

as when a plane
banks to the left

due to another
plane above.

Each time I feel
the fact of me

die out I read
my children

like a stranger’s
punctuation

beckoning me
for directions.

Some days
I will not eat

unless it’s tart
au nothing

longing for
not quite love

again, but the lip
of the jar of love

is just as nice.
My heart says

Bad bad bad
flicking two

packs of sugar
against a cup

and my spine
remains my favorite

part of me because
I cannot see it.

In the conference
moonlight, several

workshops of stars
neglect their work,

backbiting Earth
in the most beautiful

voices. Upon landing
my wish is to be

done returning
like a Cycladic

figure in a tomb
leaning faceless

but absolutely femme
against what was.

The dead so dead
the statue flaunts

her future. She never
left. I left yes yes

and in the end
I will still be praying

not to die
when and if I do.