Phoenix.

She's curled up next to you in the crook of your elbow. As close as she could possibly be.
Skin to skin.
Breath to breath.

The space under her eyes is dark with lack of sleep.
Puffy with spent tears.

You hug her as close as you possibly can.
But you're weak
  -- Much weaker than you remember being -- 
And all you can muster is to nuzzle a bit closer to her sleeping form.

You'll miss her.
Or, you ponder, she'll miss you.

For who knows what happens when you take your final inhalation.
If you'll leave this earth.
If you'll stay.
If you'll evaporate completely.

It's harder now.
To breathe each breath.
To gather the strength to keep these eyes open.
To carry onward.
  And forward.

In her sleep (dreams), she lets out an audible cry.
(She's suffering there too, you lament.)
But with it, her unconscious body reaches out for your waiting hand and clasps it.

Your fingers intertwine
  Hers young and nimble. Yours tired and slow.
And, with that grasp, you finally let go..

Of her hearty grip
Of the warmth of her frame
Of the unconditional love and affection her small form emanates

The blackness comes both slowly and rapid-fire.
It is impossible to understand time in this instance.
It is both nothingness and everythingness simultaneously.
You can feel the sweet coldness of the void
And the suffocating hug of the weight of the world.

But everything (if you can even call it anything.. ) is still so black.


Then..
Just when it feels like you're losing the concept of sensation and feeling altogether..
It bites back big time.

The blackness is smoke now.
It invades the lungs you thought you'd lost.
It stings the throat you thought you'd left behind.

Black billows take shape
  -- You can see them out of newly formed eyes --
They surge upward and outward on the tips of the flames you now feel on your newly formed skin.
The blistering heals and forms at the same time.
It radiates reluctantly from your own stark center.
It feeds from your own whole heart.

Here, in the midst of the life/death/intangible being, you hang (what seems like) indefinitely.
Gathering the strength of a life lived long and lovingly.

And when your eyes open
(Dear god you never thought they'd open again!)
You find them staring at the same sweet angel of a face that they last laid eyes on
What seems like both a second and a million years ago.

She's still dreaming.
Her chest still slowly undulates with each petite inhalation.

You reach out to once again put her hand in your own.
But your arm is short and stubby and can't cover the distance.
Your fingers too small.

You try to speak but all that comes out is a startled cry.
You suddenly realize your only form of communication is this acrid form of exhalation.
And this makes you cry harder.

She shuffles, stirred from her slumber by your sorrow.

It's hard to tell if she can recognize you in this form.
But she hears your pain.
Your bond permeates the physical.

And while she may not know you,
She scoops your infant form fully into her embrace
And rocks you to sleep.

Skin to skin.

Breath to breath.

How many times.

My eyes slit open with the blasted sound of my alarm. Let in with the light, a headache the size of the 1906 earthquake shakes my consciousness. Shatters me to the core.

It takes me the longest 10 seconds in the known universe to realize it is Sunday.

And I kill the snooze.

I tuck the curtains further into the crevices of the window frame to ban the light of the new day and bury my face into the stale smell of my alcohol-breath-infused pillow. Eau de whiskey soda.

A deep breath in.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Exhale.
Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

A futile attempt to expel the fleeting half memories from the night before. Clear my mind and settle back into dreamland.

The flashes are persistent, however. 

The agonizing subtle buzz of a mosquito caught indoors fluttering around your head,

  Threatening to bite.

I rub my temples with both index fingers. Dry dull dirt flakes from underneath my fingernails. 

Another soft exhale as the ache and incidents twist through my brain. Stopping only to jab gently at the corners of my cognizance. Prick painfully upon each blink of the eye.

Clenching my eyelids tighter only makes each flashback brighter.

[then]

The shouting.

The argument

  -- The same damn argument -- 

The tired insults.

The stale slurs.

The exasperated attacks.

She haunted me in the same way she did every evening.

Besieging me with her battery.

Agonizing me with her abuse.

As always, it apexed with physical blows.

Equally dispensed and absorbed.

But it was the words that cut the most.

Stinging sweetly like lemon in a papercut.

We were both sweaty and spent. 

Her hair frazzled -- frayed strands escaping her usually picture-perfect ponytail.

She snarled her final slander with a smile.

  Sailed the air between us and hit me with a slap.

The Groundhog's Day sequence of events taunted me and my rage exploded.

Again.

Staggered forward with a blindness I still can't seem to comprehend.

Strong fingers to slight neck. 

Struggling.

Straining.

Sobbing.
And finally silence.

We lay tangled on the floor.

Limbs like Twister.

The only breath left -- my own.

[later]

It's almost dawn when the body is (again) buried in the backyard. 

I leave the shovel next to the shallow grave.

(I'll see you tomorrow, I nod to the inanimate object, giving it the finger-guns.)

As I crawl into bed, I fall completely as-is.

Dusty jeans. Dirt-stained t-shirt.

[now]

As I slowly realize that sleep will be impossible, I flip over and curl fetal-like to the outside of the bed.

Her cold arm reaches familiarly around my side.

We spoon for a few long minutes.

And while I feel the anger bubble up, I also relish in the Stockholm-like intimacy.

"How many goddam times do I have to kill you?" I spit in a half-whisper, still giving her nothing but my back.

"No idea," she sighs.

"But please,

  For the love of God,

Keep trying."

Recipe for Joy

The chill of a night air.

The overcast sky hiding the soft shimmering moon.

The solo string of outdoor lights that somehow, dimly yet barely, illuminate the whole back yard.

The top half of a lawn ornament flamingo teetering, nose-first, on said string.

The aftermath of two hastily drunk Moscow Mules.

The cool beer in my right hand.

The faint murmur of ambient conversation with the compliment of loud, live music -- 

   The talent. 

     The energy.

The fairy being handing me a beverage promising me, "It tastes good.

  Like juice."

The silhouettes of the two giant palms in the yard next door -- 

  The trunks so large it would take two of me to wrap my arms around them.

The company of friends and Phamily.

The hugs.

The soft blur resulting from the mixture of the vodka, Tecate and that fruity beverage.

The laughter.

The subtle tug of fatigue and a perfectly timed

  "What are your thoughts about heading home?"

The late night raiding of the refrigerator.

The purr of the fuzzy ball of fur.

The gentle slide from consciousness to slumber.

Joy.  

Sometimes the name...

Sometimes the name that sits at tip of your tongue tastes like ashes.

And as it slides down the slippery slope across the tops of your tastebuds

It takes on new flavors as you continue to struggle to grasp its true form.

A bite of bitter as you curse your memory.

A smack of sour as you recall the recoil.

A slight of sweet as you savor that one Summer that made sense.

An indescribable umami that tickles your throat when you can't help but salivate for just a little
                                   bit
                                       more.

A smack of salt to sting the wounds, still soft and smarting. Still strange and sore.

And as it swims toward the throat, the build of the hot hot heat.

That hint of spiciness compounding quite covertly until

You wondered if it was even possible that you thought this might be tolerable.

To spit it up and out.

That name -- that elusive name

To rid yourself of that fear and fire as it burns still hot.

Then ashes, soft and slate.

You cast it off your tongue

And reach for another bite.

An Ode to My Shoes

An Ode to My Shoes:

It's impossible to say whether or not you still loved me or not when you gave me them two Christmases ago.

The thought hadn't even crossed my mind.. until a misplaced, 

  ill-timed,  

    poorly put-together joke fell flat on the sidewalk as we strolled

-- fast-paced and sure-footed --

down the steep street that led us away from my home.

My mind traced through the memories.. 

Slithering snakes through a maze of thick-thatched, barred and barricaded half-remembered truths.

Your gifts -- masquerades attempting to pass off as some sort of affection.

Guilt-laden apologies for the lack thereof.

It was my fault for not noticing sooner.

For taking gifts at face value.

For not understanding that the hugs were hollow.

Words were wanting.

Kisses like corpses --

Cold.

Lifeless.

Waiting for a breath of fresh air to stimulate the skin,

  reanimate the soul,

    and remind you of that feeling you thought you felt so long ago.

An Ode to My Two Feet:

Carrying me swiftly, sweetly from one universe to another.

Fast-paced,

Sure-footed,

Callous-strong.

Clad in these two solid shoes.

A gift of a ghost of loves past

and the promise of a destination to come.

What Does Your Body Remember?

The touch of your skin, for one.

The humidity of the night.

The sweat caught between the fold in the back of my knee and warmth of your thigh.

The tangle of arms and legs and miscellaneous us.

When we woke, we could feel the change in the air.

The breeze.

The promise of cool and the sweet smell of moisture.

As I motioned to grab something to cover up with, your hand stopped mine.

Our fingers intertwined and you motioned toward the ladder.

We scrambled down from the loft.

The wind was stronger outside.

Blanketing.

Wild.

The sky swirled black and grey.

A rumble of thunder shook the bare souls of our feet.

The tickle of grass between my toes.

A flicker of lightning in the distance.

We could feel the storm coming.

The warmth of your arms wrapped around me from behind.

Your head laid atop my own.

The clouds, the rains, the storm. ..

Approaching.. 

Approaching.

The first soft droplets of precipitation on my arms.

Thin sporadic tears.

On my legs. My bare belly.

Then harder, faster, fatter.

The wet, the warm and the cool all at the same time.

My hair clinging to my face.

Your laugh ringing in my ears.

Your laugh shaking my body with yours.

And we waited in the rain.

Until it felt as if our skin was soaked through and through.

Until we ran laughing for the shelter of the shed.

My Body Remembers.

Commute

My street is quiet. Rows of houses empty in the afternoon lull. Birds sing along the tree-lined road. The sun basks down and I realize it's already too warm for the light sweater I donned earlier.

I shed my hoodie in front of the local comic book store. I tuck it in my messenger bag as I pass the beekeeping store on my block. Two unique chickens roam outside its door. One, speckled white and black with an impressive mane, pecks at the leavings from the coffeshop next door. The other, caramel and beige with showy fluffy feathers covering its claws like fancy fur boots, clucks at me as I pass.

I turn right onto Mission and the avenue is already bustling with people. A familiar aroma hits me but is not immediately recognizable. My stomach rumbles, even though I already fed it mere moments before. As I continue my route, the smell intensifies. Oil and crispy fried chicken.

Outside Popeye's, a woman sells large over-ripe avocados. She sits on this corner every day with her basket full of produce. "Dos dólares por cinco!" she cries. A man on the opposite corner eats one of her avocados whole, biting at the bright green flesh.

In front of the Wells Fargo, a man strums his guitar and sings about Buddah. He tries to entice us with fresh orange slices in the hot heat. They look like they've been sitting for hours.

At the corner of 24th and Mission a man with a microphone and a small amp shouts at passerbys. "Somos pecadores!" he shouts. The crowd moves blissfully unaware. "Dios es nuestro Salvador!"

I get caught at the light on 24th and South Van Ness. A customer waits patiently a few people ahead of me. When the walk-man appears, I hang back and change my gait to be a bit slower. I savor the last five minutes of quiet before I get thrown into a fervor that is Philz Coffee.

As I near the store, more familiar faces recognize me. We smile politely. I wave.

... And I walk into the busy and bustle of Philz.