Birthstone

My conception
must have been
early June,
in the month of pearls
and weddings.
My father said
it happened
on his birthday.
(I like to imagine)

it was after the cake
and champagne,
in a pale blue bedroom,
that he swam
the length
of my mother's
moon-white
skin by candlelight.

I was born
nine months later
out of wed-lock
but as they slept,
his fingers woven
into the waves
of her long black hair,
I'm told she dreampt
of an aquamarine.
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Istanbul, 6:00 am        (premiered in Houston Poetry Fest - 2015)

From a sky of minarets
the call to prayer
pierces sleep.
The coupling of two
caged doves
a dark
and a light
the sound
of beating wings
an asymmetry of feathers
ignores the wire cage.
They whisper in the language of birds.
They have their own prayers.

In the Turkish country-side
brown sparrows
dance on pebbles.
There is a garden table
a breakfast
of walnuts
and dates
the sound of cold crisp apples
sliced, falling to the plate
wet with their own juices
light pale gold
crumbs of a sweet bread
fall
at the feet
of an old man's chair.
He sips his tea
and marvels
at the constant hunger
of birds.

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Ode to St. Valentine               (premiered in Houston Poetry Anthology - 2016)

You are the only one
who will ever
understand this poem

because you recall
warm water
and the smooth
slip of soap

because the monks' chant
still lingers
in the steel-blue smoke
of incense

because we light candles
because we say prayers

because we get married
because we confess

because cathedrals
are always taller
than we are

because angels
are invisible

because the priests
wear black
because their collars
are white

because rose petals
float on water
like small broken hearts

because once
we shed tears

because we still
taste the salt.
​
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Berlin, May 1945    
      für Lotte und Louise          
                (premiered in Red Sky: poetry on the global epidemic of violence against women, Sable Books, 2016)
​
Into the ruins
on hob-nail boots
the Russian soldiers
marched
prowled
the rubble
wolf-bristled
foam-mouthed
hunted down
the youngest
the prettiest
made her pay
for Hitler
for Stalingrad
for a hundred flowering
linden trees
uprooted
splintered and sold
for firewood
for the wild game
that fled Tiergarten
the venison and rabbit
the crack of a rifle
stones cried
battered roses
blackened-red
the Russian boot
his knife
her dress
ripped silk
shredded crepe
the signs
on broken pavement
the stains
soaked into concrete.
​
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L’Ancienne        (premiered in ARTlines - 2015)

In the dead of winter
I will spend
the very last of my money

on roses
the color of
twilight and ashes.

My hands will hang
like withered lilies
fingers slowly placing

the small silver coins
into someone else’s palm.
In the damp wind

my skin
will turn translucent
my hair

like spider’s threads.
Shuffling
in the snow

I will carry home
the last of the pale roses
arriving just before

the hard freeze hits.
Familiar voices
still inside the gray-white

hollow of my skull.
Silver-blue veils of ice
will linger until March.

All winter long, a frost
will cover the windows
until I see

A crack
In one of the panes.

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​
La Scala       (premiered in "Otter Magazine" - October 2015)

Along the cool lengths of
Carrara marble...
the ghosts of Verdi
and Puccini...
I hear them whisper
in the gilt-framed
passageways
and even here
in these folds
of blood-red velvet.
They whisper of scandal.
They whisper of Europe's
capital cities
and the passport
of a woman named Marguerite.
I want to hide 
in their whispering
in this opera house
a draft of air
slipping behind
the weighted curtains.
I want to be 
a silk slipper
lost beneath a petticoat,
a courtesan's
red damask dress.
I, too, have been led astray.
La Traviata!
I am here on the stage set.
Hide me!
Hide me quick!
Hide me here
in the rose bushes!
I am not afraid of the thorns.

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Poet’s Bio: Fragments          (previously published in Eunoia Review - 12/31/2012)

"What do you want?!!!
Go play with your brother!!!”
My mother was a fashion model.
I was born in Houston, 1961.
Once-upon-a-time, I painted Easter eggs with my mother.
She used to put me to bed with a poem.
(Today there is a book of poetry hidden in the desk drawer of my office.)
The bombing of Dresden turned a city
Into a nightmare of molten lava.
My father was born in Germany.
His dreams return to me in fractured pieces.
I would be lying if I told you this was making me happy.
When it is quiet I don’t want to think about anything.
I cannot tell these secrets;
They are deep blue, mysterious
Like poems trapped in the quivering depths of sapphires.
I would rather be in a Paris apartment
Overlooking the Boulevard St. Germain
Misting white orchids
Sipping a flute of Veuve Clicquot.
The blind see the shadows of flowers in their dreams.
For them, it is like tasting coffee and chocolate.
It is like hearing the whispering of stars in other galaxies.


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​Paris       (premiered in Eunoia Review - 12/31/2012)

La Basilique du Sacré Coeur
How do you keep her secrets?

She wraps the Seine around her waist
a pale blue sash sewn with a silver thread

a thin silk dress
her long legs stretch

the length of Haussmann’s boulevards.
She is the love song of Baudelaire’s mistress

slightly cold and barely raining.
The poets find her walking in the alleyways

capture her in the skyline
bring her coffee in the morning.

Even when I leave her … I remain.
Winter reaches for her with every wind.

She knows this to be true:
The men cannot help themselves.

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