Alphabet Soup Minuscule

The Laundry Maid

The Many Faces of You

I took a detour, as the cicadas sang in the trees above me.
For a moment I was lost among the many faces of you.
Yet, I feel discovered and strapping in this awareness.

Losing isn’t penitent, base or damaging, as some might suggest.
It is glorious, acclimatizing, and stimulating.
The unpredicted possibilities escape like goodbyes.

My bare feet do not feel the gravel,
Only these sandals my hands carry.
These ears don’t hear the brass,
Only a moon that lights the path ahead.

For the path behind me is a dead end.
That path we turned around,
Turned our backs on,
And then turned back,
To look to see if the other was looking
Again and again.
To another place,
A better place to forget.

Ten Dollar Words

We wet our palettes over plum margaritas and long gazes.
Your eyes were prurient and deep, as I spoke my ten dollar words.
You interrupted me with your lips,
Cold, hot and sweet like a melting popsicle in August.

The first of many firsts.
It seems that our lips have been long time friends.
The mariachi music playing fast in the background,
it tries to keep up with my marathon heart.
Somehow I realize my ten dollar words have become nickels.

But with you, this does not matter.
There is a certain kind of comfortability between us,
Strong like the currents in power lines.
A compatibility and easiness that has been long missing.

I ask between the silences,
“Is there something in my teeth?”
You run your fingers through my hair, smile and answer “Maybe”
Pushing away the half eaten fajita,
Pulling me slowly towards you.
As we sip on plum margaritas.


You carried scars, not visible to the bird dog.
Legacies, welts that hungover the possibilities.
Somehow, my sun filtrated through the cell which held you,
And my branches absorbed the scores of your apprehensions.

I am the dawn magnolia,
Deep rooted, and blossoming still.
My petals bend in this morning dew.
These branches are strong, as
I was planted in a soft garden light.

My inheritances are written in the rings within me.
I have bent in the wind,
Thirsted in drought, and
Coughed amongst heavier rains.
Than that of March.
My leaves have been burned by the fire
But you will never cut me down,
Or turn me to the pages of a binded book.

One thing does not define me, but many
For I will continue to thrive,
In this garden, amongst those,
Those who appreciate my shade,
My stories and this smell I carry.

Sit beneath me,
So that my leaves might whisper those things you long to hear,
Let me watch over you,
Admiring those welts you carry,
For I am not afraid of anything I have seen.
For in you I found a couplet,
A colloquy that only you and I could create.

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