White Cherry Blossoms

Last night, I spoke your name in a crowded room. The place fell silent. Even in my dreams, they've heard the news of your death.

I cannot keep you crumpled like a poem in my chest pocket you, who will not fold even to my hand’s pressure

the ten taps of your fingertips to a sonnet’s beat I understand now the precision that lets you hold butterflies, and me

you think with feeling and not with reason foolish heart if you were a man I would leave you * * * piensas con sentimientos y no con razón corazón sencillo si fueras un hombre me alejaría de ti

the smell of rain in these old notebooks thinking again how poorly I am suited to myself

too many clouds for birdsong how strange your smile is all it takes to make me sing

having watched you write poetry on the blackboard tonight I dream of drinking water from your chalky hands * * * Sleep deprivation makes me romantic!

forcing words to flow wringing you dry of love… Life, teach me patience! always, I am roughest with what I need the most

I imagine what your name would look like in this poem, knowing full well I'd never dare to write it

waking to a bed of nothing but sunlight... why is it such happiness always came in spite of you?

in three days I learned to say I love you ... the six months it's taken me to take it back

last year at this time I didn't have you, either... do they bloom in vain,      the crabapple blossoms           that never bring fruit?

emptying my spam box... somehow astrology.com always knows what I'm thinking

you, who loved mirrors and never read my poetry-- could you see your reflection here, spilled five lines down?

frozen our last night together in the back seat of your car-- three weeks later this rose remains unwilted

it's grown back now, the nail I broke our last night together the heart you broke is taking a little longer

digging deeper into thoughts of you as I climb the stairs at each level a different darkness

dog-eared pages and notes in the margins-- what traces have other hands left on your love for me? This tanka, along with four others, appears in the Spring 2008 issue of MET.

before it was sold I took one last walk through the cold and empty house why do these thoughts return as your hands brush mine?

with you gone my tongue overflows with words I should have said... our last night together we spent in silence