Borders

The body that demaractates me  Is the first barrier  That I pondered passing I was four years old when I first misplaced my tongue When I  Slurped it down  Spurring my eyes shut                         Puncturing an entrance  To a rear rescue room  I ran to grasp my body  I gasped to own it  Like one owns

Why Did You Twist Me Up?

Was the Moon A witness Or an accomplice?  I can’t tell But, Both times It was there Sleepless Swollen eye An overripe orange That I mistook  For the sun Why did you twist me up? I ask the staring eye                                                  Who, Clutching every reply Doubts to confide Even a hiccup                                           Hollow Pulp-less fruit With

Bittersweet Candy

Some of my first memories of giving, or rather receiving, are of my grandfather giving me candy. My grandfather always pulls treasures out of his droopy pants, wide and concealing like a magician’s cloth. Under this cloth hides his shockingly thin body, as well as the timeline of the rather ritualistic candy distribution, always managing to