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—
close
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.
