Crumbs in a Whistle

Saturday, June 24, 2006


She could not look at herself
inside the polka-dot prom
dress made of Wonder Bread
bags sewn together with rainbow
threads. She could not
see the color of her hair she gave away
in ribboned bunches--party
favors. She could not see the fiesta
guffaw inside her. She could not wince
at the aqua shoes swimming below
the birthday plastic. This day
was far from the miracle
of her birth--a popsicle of a baby
lit with the need to glow & go home
each night from prom or the cash
register of THANK YOU
& burn out into the private mart
of herself, in black & cream,
in a whiplashing bed, in a living
room of Stupids, in a kitchen of blank
bread, bread without polka dots.

~for my Amyquin Joamy


The shoe--fathoms wide--
a nighttime swimming hole
for us to tread--
secret well.

Our foot walks wide
together now--a sole
of cleated tread
to hold on well--
to hold on well.

--for Joaquin

Thursday, June 22, 2006

I could not call you home,
I could not break a brittle treble,
I could not tune a bone to rattle,
I could not even keen air from air
& drink to us alone.

I could not taste a sharp or toy
with a dented tin note,
kick it around in bent song.

I could not send
the children running or even
startle a worm drugged
into conducting death
with both heads I could not
become enough gusto
to blow & blow you home.

Too many crumbs in my whistle.

para Joaquin