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The cocker spaniel continues to bark and lunge toward the woman with the wide-brimmed hat and walking stick. It’s the hat and stick—he doesn’t like it when people don’t look like people, the dog’s owner, another woman, apologizes as she pulls on the dog’s leash.  

It’s December and months since I passed them on the path at the arboretum, but it’s not hard to imagine them all still there. The woman and the woman and the dog—still grounded as those summer oaks. Still as firm as these pines out the window, bracing and holding their own as snow continues to fall.

And it’s not hard to imagine the snow falling on the woman’s straw hat and on her face under the brim, and snowflakes on the rust-colored fur of the dog, and snow dissolving on the tired, cold hands of the woman as she grips the leash.  

The book lost the ability to hold my attention. It seemed to lengthen in my hands so instead of turning another page, I turned to man sitting inches to my left. His eyes were closed but his breathing lacked the tell-tale rhythms of slumber, so I asked him, because I was cold, if he was cold, too. Without opening his eyes, he mumbled something about body temperature being a state of mind—I knew he was awake!—which I deciphered to mean he was cold like the rest of us but pretended not to be.

The bus reached deeper into the night. Random lights kept us from darkness and except for a soft conversation somewhere behind me, it was quiet. I opted against saying anything further and re-opened my book, even flipped pages on occasion but this time only pretended to read. 

But I was still cold.

            She did better than she could ever have expected when led away from her dead lover in the playground so many

 years ago.  Richard swooped in and whisked her away from the barrio and plopped her down into this cute little 

suburban bungalow with ruffly curtains and bedspreads and flowers in bloom. He even won the approval of her family; 

“Another blanquito! At least he’s not in a gang!” He has always complimented her pastelón and maduros and chuckled

 when she calls him Ricardo in the heat of anger, which isn’t often. Yes, she’s done good, but lying next to him at night 

she still remembers being seventeen, freshly changed out of her virginal dance dress, and singing with her lost love on 

the fire escape.

Magdalena likes it dangerous likes it strange, 

living like liquid she’s all Maggie the cat cool, 

arm roped out the window, ragtop down 

sun blasting, going to swallow what’s left of me.

I’m spooled, threaded, bared to light, my pain

a cough of thunder, a death rattle and all I need 

is one more hit, one last drink to hear the click 

as the universe drops into place.

one syllable rolls off
my tongue, and i
swear it’s ‘love’. but
it’s only your name
in my doorway, shaking
my mom’s hand confidently.
in the frangipane of
almond lattes, astrology, and
the custard shop i
almost stopped the car
for. in firewood at
the thrift store, or
whatever your dad lore
was supposed to be.
in the pouring rain
you walked me through,
like the movies we’ll
never watch. the last
letter leaves my lips
like a highlight reel
in midair; i see
your thumb stroke my
cheek, turning red as
an old lady glares
at my blue eyes,
tinted green with envy
because of a moment
she stole. i see
my license, the smile
i flashed. i see
the way that yours
dropped when i thought
i had something in
my teeth. i scatter
the strings of denim
i ripped off my
jeans; i shuffle your
playlist, carefully, to replay
the chords you struck
so that when you
see me right back,
staring daggers, it bleeds.

The Last Train is sleeping now,
her keeper has locked her safely away.
The last drinkers have left the pub,
and are watching the drift
as their unsteady walk
guides them home.
The rain keeps me company,
as does the Hedgehog
that slowly crosses my path,
he is a spiky football
with a mind of his own.
The last Train driver is walking home,
there is a caller on the late night radio,
saying he heartily disagrees with any opinion,
that is not his own,
but he is only talking to the sleepless,
The ticking clock, and the chime of the bell
show another day has passed,

under this November sky.

I am become night
after closing my eyes
knowing there is nothing after
except the unfinished dark
that expands between islands
of slowly extinguishing stars.
From those infinite stretches
down to the ground made invisible
I am everywhere at once,
without beginning, without end.
All the other senses collapse
in this thick cloud of unknowing
where even memory wanders
towards the distance and disappears.
I become night perhaps
by looking too long straight
into an unblinking sun
into the eye of absolute light.
That is night’s one dream,
an image of what I am not,
without clear edges or lines.
If I looked into a darkened glass
would I see the body of a black swan
or an ebony peacock displaying a fan
with myriad eyes, all shut,
or some feathered predator
with talons and a sad, human face?
Or empty mirrors showing empty mirrors?
Fear is not the darkness
but the jagged tear that starts
exposing a bleeding horizon,
like a red, recent wound re-opening.

After you’ve set the book down, It’s all right if we only remember the paper cuts.
It’s all right if Eliot stands under a bare bulb for days
writing two lines.
We should thank our su ering— Chopin coughed up blood composing his last mazurka.
We come from an ancient family of weepers—A certain grief
gave birth to us all.
A flash of agony stokes the coals in the heart’s furnace. We burn like the scrolls of Alexandria.
It’s OK to break down before
the poem is over. Everything we’ve lost carries us on the wind.

We passed those years,
Liquored up from dusk,
Until the wee hours,
When we dispensed with sleep—
One cocktail after another.
And the drinks were as strong
As they needed to be,
Anything keeping us steady,
Occupied, round by round,
A toast for each occasion—
No guest of chance allowed.
How we made it through
Tipsy seasons of gloom,
Mystifies us, ever, still.
Now, the holiday highball,
Holds its sacred place;
This grace between us—
Secrets we know all too well.