January, North Carolina

Occasionally
snows falls on the bamboo,
white feathers on green.

My son looks outside.
His dark brown eyes turn darker.
The moment is cast

in the sun-failed light
I trust he will recollect
as he has his need.

**

I Guess You Were Born in Queens

Pain is to memory
what sin is to conscience.
After you, the taste
of other women falls
on my tongue, on my soul, as
rum after my taste
buds have been burned off.
After I spent one night with you I prayed
you would not kill me.
My prayer was not answered
in the way I had hoped, instead
I get to see you wherever
I turn. I must have missed
you in translation? I asked the wrong
person the wrong question?
I asked for another card?
I am given my heart, not mine.