Cold

The cold is quiet;
any fluid movement
that warm allows
pulls tight to crystal
settling deftly
on windshields
and edges of lawn
to frame sidewalks.
For this moment,
on first breath,
I can hear everything
and nothing at all;

I am still.

Moon Flower

Her bloom does not
stretch to touch the sun -
her trumpet petals
open to midnight sky -
call of island coqui;


in life, she lived
in shadows of convention
behind pots of beans
and flowered oilcloths
dulled by soap and scrub.


Equatorial days split
between dark - perhaps,
forgotten ambition;
and light - likely,
routine crumbs house kept;


at night, salsa beats
away from the kitchen;
the moon flower watches
orchids run up palm trees -
dancing with the dark -
her spirit rises from day’s dust.

Widow's Weeds

Crepe is draped
across the canopy
of the bedposts as
I lie in repose.

Heavy skirts sweep
the wooden floors
picking up dust-
unsettling past.

I lock my hair
in an ornament,
yours too fine
to scissor cut.

Jet courses through
veins vacant
of life lived before
you came

and went.