by FLB

he would look at my father’s paintings
all over the walls
the small squares and rectangles of embraced and captured light
and essence
and he would say “your father’s work is beautiful”
he would rub my dog’s  little round belly and watch my dog balancing
on his hind legs and say
“what an awesome dog”
he would have the impulse to take care of me
so that i wouldn’t have to work seven days a week 52 weeks a year
and he would rub my feet because he wanted  to
not just because bone grinds on bone
he would not  decide to forget about a month and a half of wonder
for one quick witch’s poke
of wondering



by LB

wind makes me nervous
like stepping on too many cracks
blowing shit around
waking up the baby
they say i’m vata-deranged
ayurvedic black magic

the wind whips the prayer flags
sending letters and symbols whirling
by my window
i can’t read what they spell
passing too fast
faster than the years that tick by
and you still haven’t called

it’s possible you’ve become the wind
you’ve become the blasts
you’ve become the indecipherable messages

the baby is screaming
i shatter the window with my fist
flailing arm
prayers slipping through my fingertips
letters and symbols
i can’t read what they spell and
i can’t hold onto anything
i’m sucked out the window

who will soothe my baby?
tell her everything’s gonna be okay?
not you
you are diffuse
and i miss you
that’s what i think about as i blow away
i miss you


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