I haven’t posted poetry in awhile, but I still have been working on it.  I have been considering an Master’s of Fine Arts in Creative Writing s(if I ever get my Bachelor’s Degree in English…it’s taking awhile) and have to piece together works as best I can for a portfolio..  If poetry isn’t your thing (and for most people this is probably the case), I am working on a new blog post that should be up and posted soon.  Thanks for reading, my beautiful friends.
Would you tattoo me
not on your shoulder-blade
but, there
on your chest or
your substantial arms,
below your collarbone, but above your heart?
I know things, but I forget.
The body remembers.
I twist the conversation
from the afternoon
like a washrag wrung out in the bathwater
and left on the tub.
I am the kind of girl who draws lines
whose sentences run on
and on
until everyone is too tired to sleep
And after words,
he is wrung too,
blinking between celluloid-thin, milky tea
creases (that weren’t there last year).
Still, my stocking feet
rest on his thigh (he is that lovely)
now I have forgotten the reasons why
I am boiling, ready to let go of the balloon
his forehead is still crumbling
but his chin is smiling,
upturned and smiling.
This time,
the night of my day arrives in the lobby with the humid potted trees and the low gleaming mirrors.
When we wait at reception, I like to stand where I won’t see myself at all.
The boy behind the counter is the same as last week, but if he remembers us, he gives no sign.
It’s just “Visa or Mastercard” and “Here’s your room key” in his thick Bengali.
But it’s also your pinky finger linked in mine.  And a Bollywood soundtrack playing overhead.
Then, when it’s “Here’s your breakfast vouchers for tomorrow”, I pull my hand from your hand.
And then we glide to the elevator, as though it isn’t strange at all to have no luggage,
as though tomorrow waits like a stranger waits, to hold the door.
Inside, we are–I am–watching the clock of your closeness unwinding.
It feels like a rainforest down there, you say.
And my throat laughs, but my desert lips don’t part.
You’re all mine, you murmur and press your lips to my cheek
your breath is the cup of Ethiopian blend you drank at your desk this morning.
For awhile, I whisper. And it is bitter.
Then the doors jolt open
and though it is morning to the world at large,
the hotel hall lights are constellations
the ice machine is the evening planets shifting
I am today, until it grows violet, orange then black
until your tie is a Windsor Knot again
I am shrugging off my slip in the echoes of Lola Montez
I am right now, my little one, mi cielo
I am yours, for the afternoon,
but breakfast is for wives.

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