The last time I saw you, you sent me home with a pair of Converse,
white and softly worn. You said you didn’t wear them anymore;
you didn’t need them.

Your toes find pebble
sand, sink in the ebb, the flow
bloody, broken glass.

You cut my hair that day outside on the cracked flagstone; yours had
been gone for at least a season. I sat in your dusty forgotten barber
chair. You stood among the dried potted flowers, desperate for a
reprieve from the desert sun.

Droplet of beryl
water adorn your hair, long
now, undulating.

That day you said you were feeling great and I gave you a hundred;
lies and money to ease us both I guess. Afraid of speaking the truth,
we spent the rest of the afternoon in echoing silence.

Shapeless currents
kiss your creamy shell,
rhythmic vessel.

You refused my visits in the end, always saying tomorrow. Your
mom later told us that you kept our picture close, referring to it
often for small moments of happiness. I have your records now,
Elvis and Prince.  I listen to them when the pain of your death seeps
in through the cracks of our memory.

The wake of song
ripples through naked sea
golden-winged mermaid.

Published 2017 Santa Fe Community College Accolades