I write you this note

I feel it in my bones when things are going well. They stretch easier. The joints have more of a satisfying pop than a groan and a creak and a definitive moan. But sometimes that is the weather. On a day when I am walking about, with my shuffle and my gait that wears down the backs of my shoes, it is a fluid motion of grief-less-ness that accompanies me. I know for a fact that this will be a good day. I can flip my hair and my neck feels without strain. I can open and close my hands, clench a fist, pump it high into the air and I know that nothing will shatter and sag inside my skin. It is one of these days that I decide to wait at your door. You have a nice door. One I would describe as red. It is a wooden red, painted yes, but no cherries or apples or similar flora could describe the color. It is a red that tells me, your bones sound great today. It is a red that does not yell at me if I lean against it while I wait. The handle of the door is pleasant as well. It is brass. It looks like a handle mostly. But I like it. You have a door mat with sparrows on it. They must be woven. They are nice sparrows like your door is a nice red because they do not chirp complaints when I sit on them to wait for you. Your house is white. The paint is chipping in places between the panels, as if a tired sailor had time to worry bits of it away while he waited for you too. Mostly, I like your garden. I would like to sit under that tree over there while I wait for you, but it might offend the sparrows. I think to myself on this happy day of smooth bones and a clear sky and your welcoming place of residence behind me, I think I'll wait a little longer. You have not yet arrived. It is a lucky day on top of everything else. I have brought with me what it is that I wanted to give you. I guess that could be considered not lucky since I bring it with me everywhere I go, but it is certainly not unlucky. The letter has an envelope and it is sealed. It is also very warn on the outside and if I held it up to the sun today I bet I could read what the letter said inside. That is what happens when you carry around something for someone, every single day. I keep it in my closet, so when I dress, or undress, I can slip it back in my pocket. At times, I touch it during the day and this is why it so worn. The touching. The morning ritual does not only include tucking the envelope into my pocket however, I also tuck a photo of you into my heart, (which has a special crease that I sewed there for you). Of course the photo cannot be real. It would not fit into this small of a heart. Therefor, the photo cannot get creases or folds or wear and tear. It is pristine in my mind. In my heart too, of course. On this day that is quickly sliding into evening, I am still sitting on your porch and I think I should just take out the letter and use the practiced motion of tucking to tuck it under the sparrows. Then I could leave, or just go sit under that tree. I decide otherwise though. What would you think of finding me under your tree? There is something on your porch that I like besides the welcome mat and the door and the brass handle. I like that little orange man that is standing next to the bench. There is that white wooden bench on your porch and he is a small decoration next to it. He is a garden gnome I suppose. But, he is furry and looks more like a cartoon character. He is slumped as well, as if a child dropped him. He has matted fur too, as if he were rained on. He smiles though, his eyes are still white. He looks like he may be having an okay bone day. I like the orange guy.

It is as I look away from him that I see the fence at the edge of your garden, the short white fence door, open. You are there, standing to the left of the tree looking at me as I look back at you. My bones are feeling stiff now. That look on your face is not as pleasant as the red door or the sparrows. I stand. You come up the porch steps. I'm creaking. This may have been a bad idea because I can see that you are not having such a good day as I am and that perhaps this moment is good to run, jump over that short white fence you have, and wave goodbye. Maybe I could pat the thick bark of your tree on the way out. But you are here now. You are near and I can hear your breath and hear the crinkle of plastic grocery bags though I have a feeling there are not any food items in there. You are asking me something and your voice is just as nice as I remembered. Just the way it sounded when I was young. I can remember a story you read to me, something silly. Your voice was on the verge of laughter but still quiet. I cannot make out the words you are saying now. You are taller than me, but maybe you are floating. The light is sort of hurting my eyes. I look away and when I look back the tree has moved and is standing on the porch with me, only it has grown through and broken the wood and is breaking through your roof now, I can hear the splintering of the ceiling, or maybe that is the sound of your tree growing. When I look for you you are gone.

Then I wake up. The tree is not near me on the porch, my dream is still loud in my ears. You are still not here. My bones hurt now. It is dark. I rub my eyes and promise not to fall asleep again. I take out a pen from my pocket, open up the envelope, cross out the paragraph that I have carried around in my clothes' pockets for seven months, two days, and six hours. I scribble over the cross-out. I write you this note and I wait for you to come home.

at times there is a heaviness to your breathing that leaves me sitting with the last five months in my mouth. there is a wonder and a concern and a dissatisfaction that could never go away or could disappear in one year. there is a tropical rainforest awaiting exploration and dance steps that are yet untaken, but for now there is a seed. it is filled with something that i cannot see for i am too afraid to crack it open and look inside. peeking may result in a knowledge that is unfair to posses. but certainly, there cannot be a doubt, how i do love you. life can sometimes sit in a hammock, swaying in the breeze between two curved trunks that are marked with knife points and with the end of its own sharpened branches. at these times lovers names are scoured for infinite time into the supporting boles of eternity. a serene moment life enjoys at these points, and it smiles down at me, sucking on sugar cane and laughing at the unimportance of tooth rot. and then life is looming not in a hammock but it seems hanging from a thick gnarled rope. its face is blue and i cannot bear to look at the gore of its imminent death because in me it stirs a fear much too great for everyday ordinariness. but those are the dark moments and as quick as they are to overtake me, they are quick to leave me, blown away by your heavy breathing. I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death.

i wish upon her the greatest emptiness. one that she finds inside herself, inside the crevice specific to every female. I hope she tries to fill it with men that will never satisfy her. i hope it leaves her more empty than when she started. she keeps shoving in and pushing, grinding with all her might, panting with the effort of throwing mass into the space, filling the void, yet i hope she is never able to. large, small, thin, thick, crooked, pointed, flat, and helpless they will be. some are impressive upon first glance, but they end up looking the same after, shriveled and sad and mostly as if they wear their failure in their gaping faces. i hope that the faces, still slick with human slime and grimacing with the pangs of their satisfaction, leave her revolted with herself. inwardly she will revile and lash out at others, but every atom in her will be going towards seeking out the next tool with which to throw dirt in the hole. and i hope the dirt is stained and empty, fruitless and bare, merely black particles lacking life and promise. though she may try to find more life in it, though she may seek out the fertile soil with which she was once filled, and though she may take it in her mouth and suck out the iron taste just to pretend it is the same nutrient rich substance as before, it will only crumble in her mouth and dry out her tongue. Cracked red lips, sore from tasting a dry, dusty, and impoverished mouthful will prevent her anger from spilling from her lips. it will only be able to build up inside her, rotting her organs and implanting seeds of doubt-the only things capable of growth in the dirt she eats. and i wish her revelation. i wish the weight of her burden to be unbearable, to leave her scarred in a way that changes her heart. i wish her the greatest void. and here you are, an implied side effect and a shape that is visible on her person as a gaping hole. You are torn from her skin but she gave you the blade with which to free yourself. and now that you have gone...

why they should have called love banana

because the curve of your muscle at the point in your arm where i bury my face is that shape. Because the peel is as thick as the layer of love that must be removed before you carefully place my heart in your mouth. because the strings of white flesh are similar to the ones that hold together the fibers of my soul. the soul that breathes for you. its the concealed insides that could be imagined as a boat for you and i to sail away on. it is the bruises that can be found along the body, soft brown and tender. we sometimes suffer similar pains. we sometimes feel just as silly. its the melting shape from the quarter machine, the fading yellow candy that disappears on your tongue. you weed out the red hearts, the blue berries, you seek out the banana. let it dissolve into sweet syrup and run down your throat, like the kiss i give to you. when honey drips from between met lips the smile is that shape. when a tearing sound is heard in the room and the skin of it breaks, two hands let go and the noise is the same. its the tattoo she had on her hip and the one she showed you with a devilish smile before you wondered what life was for. it is the letters that make it love, the way it rolls off the tongue and floats away in a twist of fat letters, bumping into the ear and twisting its way in like happiness. B for better now. a for at last. n for never leaving. a for actually feeling life. n for now. a for admitting love is in the smallest detail of the yellow skin of a ripe banana.

about me

the whole world is a swirling blue film of slanted light and bent images. there is soft tinkling sound in the distance, the filter maybe. there is a quiet stiffness to the viscousness in my ears and eyes. my eyes are open and they are burning. above me two legs are floating in the blue sky, kicking like a newborns. Toes are clenching and unclenching, fists banging the surface. my hair is suspended around my face, long and blonde as it is. it creeps past my lips. my puffed cheeks. i blink slowly. i let my chest graze the cement bottom, my body hanging vertical above the floor. my bathing suit catches on the rough surface and makes me stick for a second. my legs are kicking softly, from the knees down. i am trying to stay just above the ground. i keep floating upward, little by little. im trying to be as still as possible. there is a loud crash behind me and i am surrounded by a million tiny bubbles that tickle my ankles and thighs. my lungs start to burn. i do not glance back to see who has come into the still moment i was having alone, at the bottom, away from the melted ice cream sandwiches, the screaming children, the menacing lifeguard. i keep floating under the blanket of blue, high on the peacefulness. when i close my eyes, the chlorine is stinging badly. i take both palms and plant them on the ground, shove myself toward the surface kicking hard and burst through sucking in air and taking deep breaths. i hear my name though i ignore it. i want to go back under but my ears are popping and ringing with the change in pressure, the release of the water. i push a strand of long, blonde, wet hair away from my forehead and just sink low enough in the water so my mouth is under. i swim carefully to the side of the pool and grasp the metal gutter the encircles the inner lip. feeling my way along the side with little toes on the wall, crab walking with my hands, i edge towards the deep end. mommy is standing there. she is holding out a towel like she wants to show me the design. i know she wants me to get in it though, get out of the water and step into her hug and i know she'll wrap me in that towel. it will be warm and soft and smell like the grass. shes talking to someone over her shoulder. its not really time to get out yet. if it were shed be looking right at me. shed have the look. the one she gets sometimes when im in big trouble. but for now shes distracted. i go back under. I can barely hear her call to me again as the sounds fade. i swim deeper. all of a sudden, theres tate. shes looking me in the face from just inches away with cheeks just as puffed as mine, holding in a little less air. shes swimming in that spastic way, twitching all over to try to stay under. somehow it is always just her bottom that floats to the surface and bobs there while the rest of her body is under water, reaching to keep her from surfacing. she has her eyes open as do i. she is just kicking. holding her breath. looking at me as she sways. she is smiling. the air comes from her mouth and nose in a burst of white bubbles as she laughs under water and has to surface before she swallows any. i watch as her tiny body swims upward, past mine. my eye level meets her chest, strained with effort, her pumping arms, her belly thats still rotund with baby fat, and her knees. finally, her toes wiggle past me as she makes it to the surface. when i am alone again, the silence envelops me. i feel fatigue creeping through my bones. six long hours of swimming. im nine. i love it. i settle into my favorite thought - what it will be like when i get a boyfriend. It is all i think about. i know one day ill put my fingers in his hair like nanny does to grandpa. i know he'll speak a language i dont know. maybe hell be from another planet- like le petite prince. he'll be just my height and have very dark eyes. he'll smell like summer and happiness and like this moment, in the pool, at the bottom of everything, watching people swim though the sky. when he holds my hand i'll know it fits like a lock and key and when he whispers to me in his language, ill let the words roll over me like waves on the sand - massage me, mold me, move me. his name will fit perfectly in every haiku, his ears will be soft and he'll smell like my mom. as the water creeps into my nose a little farther, and again i feel the burn from lack of air, i make myself stay under. the pain will help me find him sooner i tell myself.

mi nombre es olivia. no one but god gave me that name. when i died, my husband went to the back yard and sat staring at the sky for three days, praying for rain. it came too. i made sure of it. he said looking at the storming skies was like looking into my own eyes. he said my eyes were just as likely to kill him as lightning. he told me this on our wedding day. tus ojos me matan, he said. it was the second time we had met. we are from mexico. the two of us living under the confusion and the struggle that she can bring. she can be so kind, and so furious, she is a greater storm than my eyes could ever hope to be. my husband and i both worshipped her though, which is why we left her. not to die under the hands of whom was in power, but with promises of return, with kisses and gifts and of course, more promises. she did not let us go without a fight, a lasting impression meant to sting and to communicate we were never to leave her angry again. My three year old in my arms, i prayed to god that we never would. but those were the days in which i was strong, and happy. my body was still bursting with life and ready to bear two more children. my children of opportunity i called them. born in los estados unidos, they were the ones who wanted mexico the most. they were special to me in every way, but neither could be to me what my first born son was. like my name, god gave him his name as well. this i will not tell you yet, but i will confide that for my second and third children, god was silent, no longer demanding a name in his taciturn way. i named them myself and i could only pray that if god had stopped listening, then maybe he could find a small second to let me know i had chosen the correct ones. but he never sent a sign, though mi madre assured me that he was everywhere, all the time. so frustrated: i could get so frustrated when she said this. but that is something else.
Olivia comes from olives, as in the olive tree: a symbol of peace, dignity, and fruitfulness. when my mother was in labor with me, she was on a small cot, in the middle of a war. there were black curtains on the windows so no one would be able to see the candles lit inside, flickering shadows around the tiny room. she swore that for most of the labor she was delirious, not remembering anything later on and swearing she was in conference with He himself. just as her neighbor was preparing another vat of hot water with fresh towels, in preparation for catching me as i came gushing out in all my glory, she heard a tiny cry. coming quickly back into the room she saw my mother and me, clean and soft, folded among heaps of sweat drenched sheets, happily cooing to one another. the story goes that she almost fainted from disbelief, but more importantly she knew my name before it ever left my mother's lips. she says it was hanging in the air like a thick cloud of fog, scented with honey and rain. she whispered it as she sat on the ground by my mother's side and began to pray. at the same moment, the name was uttered from my mother's mouth, the last 'a' lingering for a second longer before it floated into the air like an irridescent bubble and bursted. and so, i was named simultaneously by the two women, but firstly by god.

rei y reina

i met you in my dreams. the air is milky and foggy and i feel giggly. but you take my hand under a sky that is half lightning and half blue. eres mi cielo. at first we are in a garden or park, outside. then i am suddenly small enough to tiptoe across your eyelashes. when i see the canyon of your face below, i see your mouth. that fold of intention that shows me nothing. i am holding your hand again, wavering between happiness and stone cold sobriety. we are in a field. my hair is so long and

your hands are in it, twisting curls that stay in place and my hands are on your back, touching muscles and moving up to your face. im kissing both your eyelids and i taste something wet. my hands feel soft and then yours they have met. i can feel your weight against my own. at that moment your whispering something i would never have known. i want to say stop because it feels too good, but the rhythm of your motion makes me know i never could. when i look for your eyes from the distance im sitting, they look too far away and much too admitting. there is a pang of guilt silenced by a smile. youre taking my hand again and we're running for miles. your legs are pumping in front of me with the effort of your gait, i have the sudden urge to make us both late. releasing your hand i stop and look back and your form disappears like a train down the tracks. im alone in the fog and my heart is beginning to crumble, but from a far distant place i can hear a small rumble. your voice finds me wiping away tears that dry in the wind. to be unable to find you would be to have sinned. i search under rocks that are really just fog and i search under something that looks like a log. but i just keep hearing the words in the air, te amo mi reina and i can see your deep stare. i hope that i find you in my arms when i wake, but all i see is an empty lake. i try to surface to consciousness again, but youre calling my name and telling me ven. im stuck in a dream that is changing my height where im walking on eyelashes and flying like a kite. when my eyes finally open im in my warm bed, morning is here and sleeps colored my cheeks red. theres a light on my pillow where the sun shines and my heart sinks in my chest because the covers are just lines. they show me the emptiness of the day, ive left you in the dream unaware you're mi rei.