1 This morning one of the ancestral wood figures wanted to know why I didn’t dust him first I touch them all with my bare hand translate their stance into trees with a name and a flowering fruit All morning they chatter about wind 2 Lunch is with an articulated Josephine Baker doll wearing a banana skirt she warns me not to save chocolates for a rainy day Frida Kahlo is envious she wants all my attention but the museum is big filled with portraits painted crosses ceremonial masks textiles remnants of when we all danced together alone as if we were the mouth of the river 3 Before my siesta I close my eyes visualize where each stone carving once belonged monasteries sacred burial grounds small rooms where their presence was like a halo on a saint 4 I am careful not to crease the red bedspread
I am a graduate gemologist living in San Francisco. My poems are like bird nests, made with fragments randomly connected to hold the moment. I am like the old medieval monks who copied verses in colored inks so the world could sing forever. My work has appeared in Calyx, The Poeming Pigeon, Poets 11, Sugared Water, The MacGuffin, Italian Americana, The RavensPerch, The Ekphrastic Review, and other journals. I am a Pushcart Prize Nominee and a finalist for the Jane Underwood Prize. My chapbook water is never still will be forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.
