The Streets at Dawn

Are the same color I think she wishes 

she could always be.

Not the color of Dawn itself,

but next to it.

A reflection of melted pink and blue and orange.

Give the beholder something to interpret.

My cousin has always named colors 

in terms of nature,

whereas I’ve only thought about it in terms

of coffee.

My skin is either macchiato after you stir it,

or the pond when you toss in a handful of earth

and mix it with a stick.

And I think this is why she is the only one 

in my family with blue eyes in a 

leaf pile of brown. 

Up In The Air

There is something about airplanes

that no amount of yoga sessions can fix 

for my mother.

Something in the way the liquid in her ear

will change pressure 

and always gives her a “mom” expression.

Eyes closed, lips creased, eyebrows 

wrinkling from attempting to hold hands. 

She says this is the way she looked

when Christian fell out of his friend’s treehouse.

When Cam cut his ear open.

When I was born.

There is something in the way your mother hurts

that is different than any other hurt. 

Q&A

And what kind of man did I need to be marrying?

My dad said: boys come much later than 17 years of life, so stop talking.

My mom said: anyone you want, just not white.

Last summer said: you better move out of Oak Park if you ever want to get married.

But sometimes no one said anything.

And my best friend and I bond over the fact that boys do not have to be 

marriage proposals.

Can be as simple and easy as the cashier at 7/11.

He knows your one medium mediocre coffee at 8am before you go to work,

and the chocolate donut you pick up for your brother on the way back home.