I’m eating a mango so fresh it tastes like the ocean, here
in the parking lot patio of Whole Foods people-watching
others eat their fruit. The piled dots of blueberries,
the tiny black dots that center the kiwi slice
the guy with the swirly tattoo across his forearm’s eating.
I remember the buzzing peel of the needle on my back,
each painful dot placed to form a here nor there dragonfly.
How we go round and round to make ourselves happy.
What was it Issa said of the dragonfly?
In someway or another he likes the evening too.
Everyone is texting, fixated on cups of hibiscus tea—
worlds apart, mere feet from one another, reading online
about the rare sunset expected to be visible by the naked eye.
I thought I knew once what we liked, but we don’t
need the bended palms and blue hues of Okinawa.
We got our dragon fruit imported, the tiny binocular dots
of Venus, Jupiter, and Mercury ready to form a triangle
in the sky above us, and all the loneliness we could ever want
right here in the wireless, Whole Foods parking lot
*Published first in Kakalak, 2014
Field of Buttercups
When the gray cloud revving
like a fine Italian race car let go,
I was just far enough away to get drenched
(a poorly planned evening walk).
In the haze of pounding rain
I clutched my new midsection,
all twenty weeks of you nestled inside,
and ran—leaping streets,
finally the driveway, inside
the relief of a still house.
Curious as to what the havoc looked like
without the gush and clatter,
I found the first window and saw not
the drear of the wet world,
but a field of buttercups stretched high,
reveling in every new drop.
*Published first in Nimrod: International Journal of Prose and Poetry, 2012