To possess an artist’s canvas
 I make space upon my wall
 and put up something crafted
 so well and is so bold
 it never gets old.
An artist has the whole world
 upon which to hang.
 Her most prized possession
  is new canvas
     or a person
     or a new tatoo.

Pax Regina

At wit’s end, wisdom was my only friend.
Difficult, heavy, I clung to it
as it pulled me through the water,
sea waves endlessly crashing into my face.
Now I pick up little pieces and
hide them under my pillow, undeposited.
I dream of the day
when I trade it all in for a ticket out of here —
out from under the city
into the sunlight,
walk into the country
to find the home I never knew:
wisdom light as a smile.



Of this vast, radiant universe,
 I am of but one star.
Would the panoply be
 precious strewn
 were not each glimmer a signal of richness?
Of the multitude of criaturas on this round world,
 I am but one being.
Would humanity be
 a proud species
 were not each a beacon?
I count my cells,
        my breaths,
        my sunrises and sunsets,
        my schemes and dreams,
        my depths and feelings,
        my world that I take up
           and embroider.
Each human is created from other humans,
each star from stars.
I have craved to be more human, more starry.
I let it be
and the riches without
 are become within.
I beg no more.
Let me digest what I partake in.


Those indiscretions I was so careful to demur,
they are for the taking.
The paltry world bursts into color.
My so-called evil is humane life.
Everything is good like it should be.
My heart grows in this soil.
The evil name-calling drove me to starving;
I was desperate enough to take what ill-suited me.
What suits me is enough;
 perhaps everything
  in its own place.


Universe, thank you for the flash flood
 that canceled the trains
 that got me back to the metro
where I find myself
 as the sunlight streams
 sitting behind two young friends
one with a freckled shoulder
 bare but for straps, black camisole over scarlet bra,
 and a head whose mane is wild multi-colored orange,
and the other saying
 “I have seen a lot of things, too…”
 from the back of her neck’s tattoo.


Independence Day

At the forest’s edge
 the sky is half stars,
 half a fête of fireflies.
I tread step-by-step into the darkness
 and there is silent celebration.
A glow streaks beside me
 as high in the branches pulse living lights.
At the darkest spot, I stop and gaze;
 the path opens to the sky;
 layers of trees quietly host spectacle.