House in Tucson, Arizona
My parents will never see the Satsuma orange tree
Or the daughter I gave birth to in October.
In the hills, where they once lived,
Lavender and evening primrose are in full bloom.
The stench of javelinas permeates the air.
Lizards lounge, waiting for my parents to swat flies.
How does one tell reptiles their best friends are gone?
Water trickles in miniature rivulets, from
the Jacuzzi to the pool. The sound is
calm, bright—as my parents’ existence.
Their house, once dark, filled with this light—
what I take to be their souls or spirits singing
to let go and celebrate, as if they’re saying,
We’re in Heaven—it’s this beautiful garden.
Bosch-Creature, After Seeing The Garden of Earthly Delights
I glimpse you titanium-blue,
a moonish saucer:
which a robed figure blows
a coral bagpipe,
prance their circuitous dance
over your face, birdish
Let the stars
you forgot to paint
highlight the bartender
emptying the keg
in your eggshell stomach.
Let your legs
be twisted trunks,
and your ankles
rooted inside two green
boats, let them suggest your
After Gordeeva and Grinkov Performed
The Kiss by Rodin
The pair was a choreographer’s dream.
Twist of fate, the bodies hymned like Rodin’s,
the arms and legs rotating, hands working
constant gestures. The fluttering fabric.
Effortless postures. Their secret—his pain.
A pinched nerve, feet swelled inside his skates.
No one foresaw he would die in a month.
Doctors thought the culprit an injured back,
not his heart suffering a mild arrest.
Gordeeva was there when Grinkov fell
seconds after their bodies interwined,
circled the ice. Face blue, the medics tried
shocking his heart to its natural rhythm.
His cells, breath. Delicate, tenuous heart,
muscle enlarged from being an athlete.
What they shared: ribbons and medals.
Grace and synchronized spins. Bodies sculpted
to Mozart, Beethoven, Rachmaninoff,
movements choreographed by Marina.
Their glides and curves. His last lift and embrace.
A pair like that happens only once.