The sky seems bigger here.
Always blue, I could reach up
and touch it like the clouds
are made of cotton candy,
hanging, limp,
Pluck me off a piece I want to say,
as we plucked the gushing-warm fruit
bruised from the heat
out of the baskets and into our thirsty palms.
They were about a dollar apiece.
That is how the world is here, suspended for you--
desires dangling loosely in your heat-exhausted
vision, the reminiscent fruits of


the word dives deeper than fall or even plummet
because I give it a lunge
and take off, melted.
Water is filling, lique-beautiful
around me; release one hand
and brush a crunch of cement, an awaiting shore.
Night's taken us here
oh tropical wonderland,
rainforest of lazy palms, waxing moon,
waterfalls and chlorine--
smoke from God's cigars trailing its path among
rare, faintly peppered stars.
They insist that I float on my back so I do,
and from here it really is a perfect dome,
a snow-globe of night capped above me.
No wonder people still think the world revolves
around them?
The moon rises further above a shifting veil of blue.
It does.


I've been sent here
to wait for you.It would make sense; the patience put to
work today in sweltering lines and misting bodies
taught me waiting,
and their never-ever-ever-shutting-up about
hopes, wishes, and dreams taught me
the assuaging embrace of fantasy.
An oasis is next up on the tour of the desert
I am in and I reach for it, cringing terrified
it will disappear, a hallucination,
and I'll drown in
salt--sweat and tears.
I will wish on a star for you
though it does make a difference
that I am


They pop into being--
crackle crackle BOOM;
shower me in sparkles the way
the radiant multi-cultural experience rains on my
eyes, languages lulling and sparking,
like the fireworks, from foreign tongues to my wondering ears.
Lovely world; I view it now
in hourglass form--the people
scurrying from diversity to diversity,
from dark skin to pastry to spice to
drum to silk, the pretty things
bursting and fading. I hop into culture.
It leaps, and it spins, and it never stops.
Que piensas tĂș?
Why must we see our faith an explosion in the sky
to get it?


I had a dream last night.
In the dream, I was an esteemed ballerina
in a recital
in a football stadium.
Yet I kept messing up; the movements of the other
dancers fluid, but mine awkward
almost to the point of complete, hesitating stillness.
Immobility. You were there grinning,Chinese eyes, in the bleachers with my mother--
and I was drop-dead embarrassed to see
you there witnessing my every fatal mistake.
But then the music faded, and I clambered up to you.
Reached out.
Hugged you. You hugged back.
It was one of the warmest,
fullest, deepest, most honest hugs
I have ever had in my life--
though I suppose it wasn't really my life,
and your arms, if they ever wrap around me like that,
will have faded away with the music and the dream
before I get a chance
to feel them.


There is something about the glow of street signs
at night in a crowded, muggy plaza,
something about the rhythm in a place
that draws life in, forces it to move.
In obedience to Mother
my sister and I stride, shout, gaze, dance, laugh
our stomachs out of our bodies--
past Margaritaville, where we aren't allowed in;
beneath the open black sky, where we are.
Makes me wonder now
how many people we've passed who've simply eyed us and thought
Look at those freaks!
But oh I have my reasons;
I am tipsy with the tang of the hour,
the sweet familiarity of the company.
Even when, later, the way home is cold,
and we are still glowing,
I just figure that
the life and the light
must have been contagious.


Goodbye, Sunshine.
The sweating earth, the lovely bleached towels,
the party of four at every glass-topped table
all must end, like
everything else in the world.
She may never come again.
I realize that if nothing else, the
heat will still come back like a brick oven
in my mind to haunt me; and
what must happen next is waiting.
I float, every moment, on my back, yet the sky is
no longer cartoon-purple in the twilight--
home means reality--
and I feel my fingers prune up and hush through the water
in quiet acceptance of this.
Oh Lord, I also realize that
since the day I arrived in this place,
I have never once seen a clock.
God's time, Ma laughs with me, is Florida time.
Maybe it has melted me.
The invisible hands are ticking till
the second when I finally
hear your answer and fall,
liquid flesh all over,
back into you.