Weekend Getaway

The pink porcelain sink in the bathroom
was the sky when the sun was setting,
before purple seeped in and took center stage.
The creak in Nonno and Nonna’s bedroom cot
lulled me to sleep as it mingled with the fan’s hum.
The window display of the religious articles shop
was speckled with the wings of dead flies,
limbs of fallen angels strewn from above.
The wise men were coated with dust
that passed for soiled snow.
The bells hanging over the doorway jingled
as customers let in slaps of December,
like rusty wind chimes that lamented for
days passed but not forgotten.
Nonno chased away a moon-faced matron
who tried to snatch a fifty from the register,
sputtering Italian curses in broken English.
Queenie the yellow Lab plopped by his chair
while we watched television at night,
paws straight out and pressed together, sphinx style.
Nonno sighed and sucked in a laugh.

                         
Beach Days

The ice cream man lugged a mini freezer
on his shoulder with just a tattered canvas strap
to keep it from hitting the sand.
Sun-soaked grains crept in between
his soles and nubuck sandals,
like ants seeking adventures in forbidden places.
Red and blue rocket popsicles were my favorite,
giving me energy for an adventure of my own.
My bare feet smacked against the shore,
leaving footprints like hands whacking dough.
The pitter-patter sounded like my cat lapping milk.
I giggled as I imagined her scuttling backward
at the sight of a jelly fish in the foamy swirls.
I dug my fingers in the clay that was sand,
pulling out an egg-shaped crab.
Its rotating legs tickled my palms,
begging me to save it from boredom.
Its family stranded it among giant land dwellers.


Nightfall

Night plays games like a lover,
slipping beneath cool layers,
tapping places inside underbellies
that we never knew existed.
It spends each day plotting its
seduction, needing somewhere
to dump its jealousy and jubilance.
We long to awake tomorrow and
tell our story, knowing that no one
will believe a word of it.
Night laughs with sinful glee.
It always gets what it desires.
We writhe in frustration,
yearning for light’s blinding comfort,
but unwilling to bid farewell to
the moon’s curves and curiosity.
Night is a demon of grace,
a new puzzle to solve with each sunset.
Each constellation is a question,
each planet an answer, and the moon
plays both ends against the middle.


Little Boy With a Suitcase

That February morning,
you exhaled clouds of breath
like a dragon sitting atop
the slain enemy while
you vomited those words
in intermittent chunks.
Sometimes viper air,
neighbors’ driveways,
and the heady shade of
dogwood branches
are the only prizes--
even if paradise lasts
but a few minutes.
The blue savior used to
peek out beneath the
foot of your bed like an
inanimate voyeur
or lash-covered eyes
never gazed upon
or faded denims with a
fist-sized hole in both knees,
a seeing-eye dog
whose vision met death
years before he would.