I thought my breath
was the breeze
it felt like
fingertips

The house was falling apart. You know,
shutters dangling, closet door off its tracks, 
some wide blinking 

brown eyes through the jagged hole 
in the middle. Someone kicked it.
Chipping paint making Pangaeas

across the walls. I got lost 
peeling it like I would dead, 
sunburnt skin on my shoulders.

Leaks from where the roof was flat, 
a crack curving down the center
of the porcelain tub we used to

fill with hot water and soak 
together in overflowing bubbles
like nothing was 

wrong. Once I tried to blame
the hurricanes, but they never came,
only some heavy rain. The wind

had been calm for a long time. Some nights 
were empty, not just the
empty bottles around, beer,

some rum. Part of an old poem was taped
to the fridge. It said
the physical things come first

before you ripped it down. I learned 
about the difference between love 
and attachment from a book first

and then from you. If I could only
hate you
for kicking the closet door

that time you tried to 
kick my dog, 
for that time you kicked my dog.

Then she started hiding in the closet
every time you
raised your voice.

You even kicked 
the two baby lime trees
which I bought just before you moved in

and perched with sticks
until they were strong
enough to hold themselves up.

You never kicked me,
because as much as it might seem
like I mentioned the lime trees to serve

as a metaphor for me,
they’re not.
I left the day you threw

a glass jar of coconut oil at my face,
which was only a day after you started 
all the kicking.

I can’t say I didn’t 
cry a lot, or that it wasn’t excruciating 
to walk away and so fast. 

I did, and it was. 
But the way memory works 
is not so easy.

I still remember how you’d
hold me in your metal arms
like a magnet.

I would not like
to be a rock.

To feel is 
the greatest
gift of all. 

Tell me
if you 
agree.

The water listens
the ocean
the lake
the pool
the rain.

When the chaos
of the heart is close
the gift is to be vulnerable

Two roads diverged
in my mind
and I listened
to my body
to decide.

The dogs and daffodils are sleeping in the yard. The sun is over them praying in afternoon ease. It’s Sunday, which means energy is collecting from believers. From there we don’t find answers, but we can still exist peacefully. Remember that dogs and daffodils do not pray, do not care about what is invisible, nor consider anything a waste of time. All of this living is equally meaningful or meaningless.

I’m over here
painting my life
like the energy
of the moon
on the tide.

I have
my own moon.
It lives between
my heart
and my freedom.

What other people think
doesn’t matter
if you listen to these
soft words
repeat them
like clouds
floating through
your cerebral
atmosphere:
I love myself.
I love myself.
I love myself.