Stitching Bees in the Hospital Waiting Room

at age 5, I caught a glow bug in my tin bucket and took her home 

because I wanted to see how she would light up my room

but I woke up the next morning and her glow had gone

that was the earliest encounter I had with death that I can remember 

if I do not live to kiss the forehead of my first born daughter 

I'll send her all my kisses now

I've learned death does not have good timing

but she knows how to show mercy

and to turn pain into rest

I should start buying mom more flowers 

and telling dad "thank you" more often

illness had her grip on him longer than he was holding hands with life

that stretcher didn't seem too comfortable

nor did the tube taking home down his throat

I'm yet to exchange wedding vows in the desert 

and carve my name in red rock

I still don't know every gemstone by name

his bloodlines became obsolete along with his cd collection

the television always radiated warmth

and the pear trees were often forgotten to be watered

I bought myself a 35mm disposable camera several weeks ago 

and I still haven't finished using up the film

grandma gave me his old mandolin

 I don't think I'll ever truly learn how to properly play it

I need to stop being so hesitant of sharing my favorite songs with others 

in fear of them being the reason the music may later leave a bitter taste in my mouth

I still remember mustering up the courage just to touch his toe

I was reluctant because a machine read his heartbeat

and his complexion bargained with white orchids

seeing someone like that makes you take a lot of walks

I'm ready to dance in campfire smoke and rest my head on the shoulders of the people I love

there's more places I'm yet to hike to with no particular destination in mind

there are reasons behind why our bloodlines run south

the same reasons his classical guitar gathered dust

and I sat stitching bees in the hospital waiting room

I don't have to laugh at jokes I don't think are funny

just because it sometimes helps conversations run smoother

I couldn't recall the last time I saw him conscious

nor the last time I saw my dad cry

the clouds swam through marmalade 

it didn't match the mood

but in ways it did

I'm yet to dwell through Petra's ruins

and sign the adoption papers to bring home my first dog

I wonder if the nylon strings on his classical guitar snapped

the same time he passed over at 5:07 that morning

I'm looking forward to the day me and him will meet in perfect health

 I envision him now hugging his mother
exchanging apologies with his father
and singing in gunfighter ballads with Marty Robbins

we will sit with one another and beam about everything we didn't in this life

I apologize to the glow bug I took home in my bucket made of tin

I believe my grandfather is well

and smiling 

because I'm teaching myself to play his mandolin

(My Grandparents, Noriko & Chris)

Embroidering These Fears Only To Stitch Them Out

missed calls

gravel pits

needles

I Want To Sleep In Honeycomb

I’m going to tell you what it’s like to ache for honey

and to have your hips swing around mountain ranges

I go home and practice talking a little louder

my voice is not used to reaching beyond shut doors

I’m trying a little harder

so I'm carrying my speech through canyons

caramel echoes bounce off red rock

I'm learning to not leave my voice behind shut doors

I once knew a boy with an artichoke heart

he taught me that love is not always pink

or reciprocated or understood or exactly what you need

he was not what I needed

I’m waiting for the day I’ll be able to roller-skate on Saturn's rings 

I'm getting tired of lost toothpaste caps

and tipping over mason jars

teeth sinking in sparkling water

I want to sleep in honeycomb

I’ve been kissed by olive branches

stung by bees

aided by angels 

miracles do not shout for attention

rather they wait to be found

thank you, God for planting those miracles in me

for I was what I needed all along

. . .

I no longer leave my voice behind shut doors

so watch me as I bandage my own blood

 brave and bold, brave and bold

the Asphodel Inquires the Stinging Nettle (a very short written script between two conversing plants)