Foxes and Magnolias

Leaves rattle down like rain; they brown and crumple against street curbs and leave me longing for something I may have never lost.

Tiny Portraits

It all feels distant, when thinking of you,

like a watercolor spilt over with water
the bleeding and then
the softening
of it,
the fading-

your bare feet up wooden stairs,
your car door closing at the curb of evening streets
to come home
to me,
I always knew from through the window
it was you.
The wedding,
the rented houses and apartments,
the roads we’ve wheeled over,
how our bodies curled and sprawled in sleep,
when watching Sunday movies,
when by the creek in so many seasons.
The things we’ve said-
all of them.

After six years,
how is it that you are so soon
mostly lost memories?

Though, not forgotten: the certain way
you would say
your spanish name- the one given to you in school
as a kid:
But not just Hidalgo-
HidAAHLLLgo. As though so happy to say it
every time, and you were.

The way you’d inspect each berry for mold
and then toss them
one by one, between inspections,
into your mouth.

These tiny portraits of you-
voice, face, the movement of your hands, the colors,
the way it felt to be next to you,
I’ll keep them in a back pocket
of old jeans I sometimes wear,
search for them
on days I need to feel close to you, again.
To know it all happened, once.

Some days I want to call you
just to hear you say
Some days
I want to sit beside you
as you eat berries.

“Your Skies,” He said.

I remember my brother saying, when visiting once,
“Your skies are so big
out here.”

This morning I watched endless
clouds and empty blue space
shift in texture and shape and hue

golden and gray linings
and underbellies.

He comes to visit again soon
and I wonder if he will see it still,
the big skies, out here.

Like You, Me Too.

She lifted her shirt to her navel,
just above
where the scar line falls from.
“It looks better, don’t you think?”
and I nod,
though I’m unsure
how dark the pink of it
ever was,
how wide or risen.

I notice the shape of her,
but a slight protrusion of belly
at the same horizon where her pants button-
she wears them high to mask it.
She’s always blamed that rounding on us-
my brother and me.

She’s never liked her legs either,
and sure, perhaps a bit wide,
but she curves well-
in the way that women without curves would like to.
Some days, in the mirror,
I see how our bodies match
and I look at my shape sullenly, too,
but never when looking at her.

Today I put on the hand cream she wears,
lime basil & mandarin.
I don’t like the way it smells on me,
but I liked smelling her.

“Like a Pendulum,” You Said.

Someone watched us fishing,
well, you teaching me how to fish-

the counterpoise of movement,
the tension and release of line from hand-

and told me later he thought we were falling in love right then,
us standing thigh deep on the still side of current,
our skin gold and hot from the sun and touching
at times.

There’s a picture of us-
our pants weighted from the cold water
your arms bending when returning from elongation,
the muscles in your back
finding every gradient of gold to coal
as they moved in the light,

me staring at you
like I would the Grand Canyon.

New Season

Sometimes I forget the way in which you left me:
so suddenly and without telling

and I wonder where all the sound has gone,
why the couch and house have too much space, now
so much stillness,
why the dishes in the sink seem too few, now.

I used to watch the moon rise slow
with you
or hoped you were watching it, too
when parted from you.

I saw the moon sink like a falling stone
this morning and didn’t sink
in thought of you.

Early summer skies
already turned blue.

I’ll Remember How You Remembered

You ask me if I remember making love to you
once, on the floor of an old apartment I had
as we held crystals- quartz and and long selenite-
along each other’s bodies.

I don’t
and tell you so.
This is the first time I’ve ever seen you sad before,
head leaning- as though falling, though only momentarily- in disbelief,
your eyes
deeper, somehow.

So many memories I’ve had
of loving you once
are faded now.
You never knew I loved you then.


The innocent chatter of loud children

whirling and bending like dance,

like flirting birds

in dull spaces,

little boy and little girl

speaking and giggling

at the same octave

with the same gapped tooth smiles
her blonde pony tail, frizzed

his hair neatly shaped,

freshly cut at the salon

down the street with his mother
little leaves on long branches

canting at the edge of happening roads.
My hands were softer in Illinois-

youth and humidity combined.
Maybe you remember,

do you-

my soft hands, back then

in Illinois?
You always held them so well,

took one of mine in both of yours

and kissed it

so well.
Why don’t you kiss them



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