Hoarder

The arrangement of clutter
is like chaos theory -
tumultuous and confusing
but mathematically specific.
He knows where to find
half the pair of his shoes
in the boxes and bags
of collected memories.
He knows where he hid
the rental receipts
between the tall piles
of newspapers bought
and never read.
He knows where to look for
souvenirs from a rendezvous
and that nice old lamp
rescued from the dump.
But I wonder how
he never seems to seek
in the litter of items
himself.

Father's Formal Pants

It kept coming back, that instance
his palm slapping the back of my head
while I negotiated with the creases
of his brown polyester pants.
He had me press out the weeks it stayed
crumpled like a ball of paper
in the corner of the cabinet, unwashed
and forgotten like a childhood memory.
My worth was measured by how smooth
the pants felt out from the heat
and how evanescent the folds were
from the touch of hot iron.
What he taught was temperatures
needed to be precise, exact
to quiet his mumbles, grumbles.
What I learned was my skin can burn at a touch,
the heart can hold some anger,
tears are not for the weak,
rooms should hush in his presence,
and his pants were never mine to wear.

Green Mangoes

So many green mangoes the tree bore
like fists of jade clinging in clumps
lost their grip and scattered on the pavement,
snapped away by an overbearing wind.
One browned old, shrivelled with neglect,
no earth to root itself on the cement.
Some found themselves subdued by the weight
of vehicles that minded their ways on the street.
Birds flew down on the others, tasted the ripe
flavor only summer brings under their stony skins.
For the unaccounted, a baby leaf, or parts of their flesh
resting on the space where they used to rest.
I, being a man who can never tell
how they have grown sweet by the way they smell
or the tenderness of the mass behind the peel,
took them all in this capacious basket here.

Teddy Bear

i


Her cabinet's ready for keeping him,
her younger night's constant companion.
He's begging with sad, button eyes -
one more hug.

One more hug, she hears him again
in a climate more indecisive than her past,
but she's already outgrown
all that fluff.


ii


The eight-cornered shadow hugged him
like a spider curls when it's dead.
When time broke a yawn,
the arms of the morning stretched
inwards from the opening door
and took him out while he smelled
a hint of his own, older fur.


iii


Red light districts sprout
like amanitas in a forest of skyscrapers.
He searched for her in the city.
He searched for her on streets
gone wet from fickle monsoons,
streets that won't get him closer to the lost.
She hid very well in her own room
where different throbs of colored lights touched her,
and corners had eyes watching
intently from their tables.
Lost himself, he quit searching
and surrendered to the bed, cuddling
with young, young girls.