Drops

* * *

We took hurried turns on the payphone in the communal hallway, our chit-chat punctuated with drips from the leaky bath upstairs.

I don’t remember who it was that pestered me to get off the damn phone or what it was I muttered under my breath as I hung up and walked away.

But I can still hear the sound behind me, loud as an explosion, and the chair smashed under the weight of all that plaster, all those drops of water, all that time.

* * *

On the Crossbar

* * *

I remember that morning in Long Beach,

sitting on the crossbar of my dad’s bike,

the two of us carried through time by the sun and the wind.

* * *

Village Rain

There is no rain,

my grandpa said,

like the rain in my village.

It made diamonds out of cobblestones

and turned the rooftops silver.

The Furnace Man

The Furnace Man 

barbecues 

people for dinner

picks them up like logs 

stokes his mouth full

doesn’t have to chew 

the flames in his belly 

flicker hot and fast

vaporize the bones

until nothing remains 

no skin no eyes 

no diamond necklaces 

not even dreams. 

But one day 

the memories of the girl 

he has just consumed 

evade the heat

flip-flop in his mind

salty and fresh.

He separates them out 

from everything that burns 

and keeps them 

in the cool of his head

just behind his left eye. 

She swims along the beach 

she and her brother 

they bob up and down 

in the waves 

sink into the depths

imagine they are mermaids

shipwrecks seaweed

then the sky lifts them 

into the blue

so much happiness it brings 

this rise and fall rise and fall.

The Furnace Man 

loves the girl’s memories 

of the sea 

will not burn them

plays them over and over

until he loves her too  

and wishes she could 

be there with him. 

But that can never be 

for he has gobbled her body 

until there is none of it left 

no flesh

no eyeballs

no eardrums 

no pink fingernails 

none of it.

All he can do 

is drown 

and the salt 

cleanses the air 

the water bathes 

the red cheeks 

and the laughter rises 

from the water

like a song.

Morning

Slowly it begins:

the sun wafts into the garden,

drips green onto the moss,

trails gold along the stone.

The bush funnels up the shade

where it will wait out the day.

Before long, the terrace shines white,

blinds the opening of windows.

The shingles crumple and shift

in the unfamiliar heat.

Umbrella tops drip with bamboo.

Pipes rumble and run along the walls,

the taps accelerate,

the drains burble

with rust-berries and fallen leaves.

Twigs twist out of charcoal bags

and the fences crowd with doves.

Our ladder climbs up! up!

into the hangout of the crows.

But those old birds don’t care;

they are dining on last night’s dreams.

Aerials rake the clouds,

harvest the songs and signals

out of the bluebell sky - 

and the wheel of the morning 

flies open.