indecisive

i promised myself
i'd lock the door
but now i'm tempted
to let you inside

my vagabond eyes
find your smile hospitable
yet shy away,
used to nomadic living

the screen door
flaps open and shut
in the fickle wind.

failed metamorphosis

i spun my cocoon eagerly
itching to trade
my legs for wings
rubbing crimson
in midnight hair

the Red Sea gushed
down my clenched eyes
leaving blood stains
on ceramic and chrome

my eyes creaked open
lids rusty door hinges
my hair grinned
black, not red,
in defiance

caterpillars escape
into their cocoons
but it takes something
stronger than ammonia
to erase me

jailed palm

your head brushes
against the ceiling

too big for this house

gazing at your slender frame
they doubt your strength
your tropical origins
question your survival
outside the glass
there other trees stretch
towards a nonexistent ceiling

you can only wish
to stand among them
to spread your roots
out of the confines
of your small pot

snowglobe kids

exult in the beauty
the cotton candy happiness
before it disintegrates

what could be more beautiful
than our fragile sphere
of contentment?

frolic as we wait
for the unseen hand
to flip our world over
for chaos to rain over us
once again

emulsion

we were beautiful together
but nothing more
than an emulsion
bound to separate

bogged down
by your memory
i try to keep you
as you creep to the surface

if i agitate the glass,
hard,
will our colors blend again?

(but for how long?)

i forget what it is like
not to cling to you

wind chimes

slender metal rods
dangle from frail harnesses
hollow as they are,
beauty is found
in their nervous cries
when terrorized
by their perpetual bully

i envy their clumsy grace.

nature screams through them
but seldom grants me
a whisper

urban compromise

they think the others odd
for adopting the place
as an oasis,
where car exhaust interacts
with the bay's salty breath
and rumors of mercury make
the water less inviting.

they gawk at joggers,
cyclists,
roll their eyes
at the adolescent couple
scrambling across the rocks.

an impatient horn squawks,
breaking them from their reverie
they edge forward
in the procession of cars,
failing to see the beauty
of this urban compromise.

gentrification

the windows yawned,
pulling up their weary blinds
to see the girl
the old aunts
spoke of transforming
from a pixie into a lady.

in the dusty jewel box,
pearls scrambled
to hide from the light,
roused from years of sleep.

the nail file beamed,
pleased to be smoothing away
jagged edges,
as the mirror waltzed,
finally viewing
the epitome of grace.

lipstick blurred
an angry scowl
and the finished product
paraded out
as they praised her.

they spoke of improvement
but she saw
a condescending audience
before her
laughing at a painted clown.

aspiring housewife

benign rabbits and bears
stood single file
as i cooked
plastic eggs and bacon,
a good mother.

i sent them to school
(tossed them
out the bedroom door)
sighed,
shook my head,
returned to duty.

i smothered my children
against me.

i did not know
what the white picket fence
kept out.

tarnished boy

your back
and averted eyes
speak more than
your arm curved
around my waist
and breath on my neck
ever did.

i reached out my hand,
waited,
waited.

my arm now knows
it is better
to be pushed away
than left hanging.

every day
your glow diminishes,
i itch to see you
dull.

melting

the pink scoop of ice cream
teetered under
the child's tongue
two tables down

one more shove,
the cold meteor fell

his mother whisked him
to the bathroom,
refused to entertain
our glances

my waffle cone was leaking,
you pointed out,
and i wiped away the mess,
wishing that i
never melted from childhood

my messes were now my own.

tapestry

the loom is dusty.

i brought it out because
you are a snag i must smooth
with every laugh and hair tuck,
i struggle to pull you into my tapestry
grass blades are the only aphrodisiac
with which i can lure you.

my shuttle works hurriedly
before this moment breaks
and you unravel.

unknown brother

the crow is silent
on the couch
lulled by infomercials

glass, phone lines
and seventy miles
divide us
not her cawing

ink and nicotine
stained fingers
dance on keys
weave comments
that brighten my screen

unspoken words
yank my usually
stubborn mouth
upward

you lay dormant
in my mind
until now
you seize the stage

dancing illusions

the gilt-framed mirror applauded,
demanded an encore.
in its silver eye
i saw myself,
pink tulle against burgundy curtains.
i called my name in praise,
the voices that came out
were those of strangers.
Isadora Duncan and Maria Tallchief
quaked in my shadow.

the mirror wore blinders
ignored tangled legs
during pirouettes
and hunched shoulders in pli�s.

my stage was small,
the mirror
and the strangers inside me
hurt me more
than a thousand jeers ever could.

they gave me slippers
too big to wear.

end of exploration

fingers wade through
foreign wavy stalks of wheat,
tip-toe across a plateau,
down the slope of his nose
circle his still moist mouth,
awed by prickly stubble
reminiscent of shorn cacti
but finally settle on his chest.

only now he
no longer yields
to nomadic fingers.
they are unwelcome
in his territory.

melting faces litter a barren field.

monday's instructions to the artist

(inspired by Billy Collins' "Instructions to the Artist")

make my hair
blades of grass
that quiver in the wind.
it is never docile anyway.
hide my face
behind these green strands.

leave crevices for my eyes
to peer through.
let viewers
see little of me,

i like one-way mirrors.

my limbs
should be four rivers,
fluid in motion
yet grounded.
i should like to
at least appear graceful

do not mix
gray or black
on your palette.
let me escape
the city's ugly colors.

when they say you
made a landscape,
not a portrait,
do not listen.

i am the quiet background,
i watch animals
scurry about.

identity versus heritage

red brocade, silk and sandalwood fans cannot fade
from my memory, because they never existed. the elders sigh,
their gnarled hands and thin wrists encircled in jade,
and tell me that i am one of their daughters, a blatant lie.
but my face is a permanent map of my heritage. even if i cross
my fingers, i cannot erase my almond eyes, which log
family history to rice paddies in Canton. yet i feel no loss
of home nor family. my mind covers Beijing streets in fog.
ancestors loved these places, not i. they left their tunnel
and came here, adapting their tongues to the strange tones
that floated on New York streets. they told me to funnel
my energy into succeeding here, using American stones
to build a new foundation for a home. the voice that rings
in my head says to look past old roots, to unfurl my own wings.

muse of mine

sunlight greets the Seine.
flowers on your breast glow
respond to the sun's call,
but not you,
night robbed you from me.

your features were never gray
until now.
even heavy white face powder
failed to dull you
in a kimono and blonde wig.

poppy fields and meadows
remember your billowing dresses.
parasols held high.
no one will walk them as you did,
camille.
they will remain barren,
quivering at your memory.

ages of hunger

in the age of sleet
the knight returned from his quest.
the child thought he'd retire his suit.
she flung her arms around him.
he brushed her away,
a speck of dirt on shining metal;
he wished her mistress well,
spurred his horse and jumped over barricades
that had confined him to the castle.
the child did not watch him escape,
tears stung her eyes
into temporary blindness.

in the age of wilted flowers
the girl scorned a young bishop,
spat on his crucifix.
hungry eyes and mouth
starved after the knight,
she had tarnished the bishop,
blown out his halo,
trampled what remained.
she wept for the cathedral now lost
and for the recovered world
outside stained glass.

in the age of overgrown grass
the rook sidled over to the girl
examined the potential in
bashful eyes and tanned skin.
trapped by his unwelcome compliments,
the girl fled.
appetite still unfulfilled,
the disappointed rook
headed a different way.

throughout the ages
the girl hungered although
others tired of her,
had her fill,
visions of the perfect meal
still drive her.

echo

the lyre and songs
cannot rouse echo
to feast with other nymphs.

she once distracted hera
with her stories
as zeus toyed with his consorts,
an endless strand of jewels.

now she entertains no one,
tears collect as puddles
in sunken cheeks.

papermakers

hair pulled back by scarves,
the women sang along
with mortars and pestles
grinding bamboo with leaves.

water bubbles whispered
and steam screeched in delight and
the women also gossiped.
children scurried about their skirts
hoping the heated pulp was really
their next meal.

sheets of wet pulp hung
next to tunics and diapers.
children sank their heads
into their mothers� laps
and listened to stories of days past.

the women imbedded
gossip, songs and stories
in feathery sheets of paper.

we write them in ink
for everyone to see.

resolute

streets are lonesome today.

smoke drove the others inside,
fixed them to television sets.
she perches on the brick stoop,
phone cradled between ear and shoulder.
gray hair curtains the call

her soot-faced husband
tells her about the lost boys
and coughs.
he is a background character
in the apocalyptic scene
televisions show those indoors.

the backstage director orders him
to rejoin the scene,
she too carries on her role.

in her own screenplay
she would sweep smoke and anguish
from these past two mornings,
but she is voiceless,
a sob caught in her throat.

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