Quarantine Diary

Re-examining reality from childhood spaces

I miss laughing and smiling,

I miss inescapable corner mouth pulls, uncontrollable giggles,

I miss that feeling of happiness—

I never knew what it was until now.

I miss subtle nods and acknowledging waves,

The hey’s, hi’s, whattsup’s, see you later’s.

I miss plans.

I miss canceling plans.

I miss missing free time.

All I Miss

I miss the cashier, the barista, the waiter, the bouncer, the DJ,

I miss pizza and cocktails and crowded streets and blaring horns and busy sidewalks,

I miss one more—

And feeling it the next day.

I miss gossip

Amanda,

He said She said…

Because nobody says anything anymore.

I miss chairs and benches,

I miss walking in tired shoes,

I miss hunting for a place to pee,

I miss graffitied bathroom stalls.

I miss dinner and

Girls’ night.

I miss dancing.

I miss sleepovers that end at noon.

I miss conversation,

Face-to-face.

I miss awkward eye contact,

I miss the long thinking pauses.

I miss pants

And mascara

I miss stolen sprays of Marc Jacobs Daisy and Chanel No. 5

“Just because” isn’t the same.

I miss running late,

Last minute change of shoes.

I miss having commitments,

I miss following through.

All I Miss II

I want it back.

I want good morning coffee breath and

still tired eyes.

bedhead tangles,

Calvin Klein

naked from the waist down.

I want Sunday afternoon sofas—

That ‘70s Show

Sourpatch,

pineapple juice,

Too lazy to move.

I want skin,

fingers tangled in hair

cheek to chest;

late-night rollover,

The little spoon.

I want the sigh between lips

inches away,

a laugh apart—

but not enough.

I want a hug.

Kisses,

to hold hands

mine Yours, yours Mine

same difference.

I want the voice

that speaks

خَلَصْ

khallas

to Me.

I want today

tomorrow

next week

next month

next year.

I want beginning,

middle;

the bump in the road,

plot twist!

end.

I want it all back.

I want maybe,

someday.

maybe not to the way it was,

but to the way it could be.

Lover

Just stay home,

relaxing on our couches.

Order in

Tiger King binge

support local,

poké takeout.

Just stay home,

sprawling in our La-Z-Boy recliners.

Pop open a cold one,

Coors Light

mountains blue, just right

cause its the little things that ain’t nothin’ finer!

Just Stay Home

Just stay home,

sleeping on our tufted Chesterfield sofas.

Read Sue Monk Kidd:

The Secret Life of Bees

breathe,

Ashtanga Vinyasa yoga

Just stay home,

resting in our settees.

Purl a jay

Paper Raw ashtrays—

exhale,

smoke rings steady.

Mother House

There is a house, a special house

tight to the heart and beside the soul;

A rarely ever seen, once in a blue moon—

hidden but not among others

too noticeable to be left unknown.

No falling walls, caving plafonds

destruction here is void;

Foundations never crumble, only move for

empty infinities to be filled anew—

vacant rooms furnished by Voice.

Hallways don’t end, doors won’t shut

not for impotence, contrarily, a lack thereof;

the choice to make place for

body and breath and thought and space—

a fine balance of knowing when it’s time to be and be done.

She reaches above, roofs kissing cirrus clouds

because after hardship ceilings don’t exist;

bathtubs become oceans to learn what water means,

stoves are fire to understand flame—

truth is a reality determined by residual persists.

Across foyers, lessons are ethics

gifted only to those with the Key;

adrift thought, woven speech, steady meditation

while listening < < louder > > than words

I’ve come to know Her through Me.

Upon her floors, barefoot and exposed

I skip and dance and fly;

delicate and fragile, but not in the breakable way—

an intimacy only for Us

read best in maps of evening skies.

She is not just house, she is Mother House

mi hogar dulce hogar;

each time we meet,

grown farther beyond myself—

mi lugar favorita para estar.