"The white fathers told us, "I think, therefore, I am" and the black mother within each of us – the poet – whispers in our dreams, I feel, therefore I can be free."- Audre Lorde

Monday, June 17, 2013

one colour

My head rests on the rise and fall of your breath,

as your chest absorbs my tears, like rain on a garden

that has long ago forgotten what it feels like to be thirsty.

But you have not forgotten. You rarely forget things that matter.
Like today.

We lay tangled in limbs, hair, stories and a past

on this wet Sunday afternoon

in a room kept dark from the magenta-fabric of a window blind

and the soft whispers of Simon and Garfunkel greatest hits

We only play music that
keeps the room one subdued colour,
because in a world that feels unpleasantly unsafe
one colour is all we need
to find a comfortable beauty again.

Your hand drums gently on the top of my head,
drummers are always keeping rhythm,
your hands remember time
and so you carry memory in your hands, and I relive it through your touch

Though sometimes, it's painful--

The reliving.

But today, it isn't, because there is a certain sense of freedom

that fills our dark space, like the unexpected scent of musty incense.

We breathe it in,

because we can

and because it has been so long since that smell

felt as familiar as it does now.

And we wonder if this is what it feels like

to become survivors.

To breathe in the subtle nuance of freedom,

and have it cling to our lungs

in a dark room

on a rainy afternoon.

To relive memory,

and know we were tangled together

all along.

Even during the times

the colourful world took me away,

and the light from the rolled-up blinds

made your presence disappear.

Even then,

your hands kept perfect rhythm

carried perfect time

and continued to drum gently on the top of my head

as I buried my face

in the beating of your chest.

And today, now, in the unlit space we've made home,

I look at the redeemed mess of who we are

and smile because you're still here

and so am I.

Tuesday, March 26, 2013


Every now and then I smell the scent of his cologne;
 and in those moments I feel unsafe.

Not because the smell of him makes me afraid,
but rather because the smell of him reminds me of how continuously unsafe my world feels
without him near.

Wednesday, February 13, 2013


If serendipity were a tea, it would be rich and full bodied,
And fermented.

Young innocent leaves—plucked as buds and buried
Far away from sunlight
Tucked tightly in a sack
Bound by the discerning weaves of indecision
Tucked tightly in a sack
That rests beneath layers of earth
A comforting reminder of both
Beginnings and of ends.

 This earth would be in a cave
A deep tunneling rock
Carved out from broken places— a sanctuary, a birth house

And in this cave
Beneath the earth
Resting tightly in the swaddle of a sack cloth
The young delicate leafs
Would slowly age;
And with age darken;
And with darkness, ferment.

 In this cave,
Each leaf would absorb
the wisdom of its surroundings;
Would memorize the rhythm of each of its sounds;
the every sensation of dripping damp coldness

Until each leaf would grow to bare
The imprint
of being buried far far away
from day

Or night.

 If serendipity were a tea,
It’d be uncovered and unearthed
Resurrected from its burial sack
Like an ancient and sacred artifact  
Whose history tells a story of a
Slow and aged journey
And upon seeing the light
For the first time since a bud,
Each leaf would be beaten and bruised
As if survival
Gives it its rich and dank mouthfeel;
Its soul-filled aftertaste.

 If serendipity were a tea
You’d add a teaspoon and a half
Of its broken leaves
Into a cup of no longer boiling water—
You’d let it steep for approximately 5-8 minutes
No more, no less
And you’d close your eyes
And get lost
As it would fill your mouth,
Your body,
Your entire being
With an aged perfection
that to only darkness and desolation
Could give life.

 You become the cave,
The earth
The elapsed time
And sunshine
As you hold the mug closely to your face
And inhale its smoky heat.

Tuesday, January 22, 2013


I used to think of you
as a phantom limb
the piece of my self
I once swore I needed
to survive
to function
and exist as me.
the piece of myself
that was severed--
skin, flesh, bone, muscle
torn from body
you were there
in the blood and swollen tendons
there in the violent separation
of a dark and gaping truth.
You were the limb
I thought I lost

and in your absence,
I sensed you-- as if still you were a living, growing part me of.
I felt you and knew you as a lingering pain
an ache stemming from the invisibility
of the space
you once occupied.
In your absence,
I still feel you move
and flow
alongside the daily rhythms of my own body
as if trying to reclaim your role
as a fundamental necessity.
The moments I hurt the most,
are the moments I forget to mourn your loss.
and the detachment
haunts me with now distorted memories of
movements and sensations
I'll never again know.

I was once told that the frequency
and intensity of phantom pains
will usually decline with time...
and so I wait,
with one ghost of an arm
for time to make you disappear.

snail coitus makes me smile