now that you are here

sometimes, I wonder
who I am love - now that
you are here.
now that these nameless
fears and desires are named.
I am different now that you are here.
even at the market
I count my coins so carefully.
I picture you in the café
pouring cream into your cup
your hair rumpled like your shirt.
once, you told me
you did not have enough.
old things pass before me
like traffic on the street, like unread words
painted on bright placards.
tender things are left neglected
by weeks without care.
even my garden has changed.
I grow impatient with it
-for good things that ripen too slowly.
the reddest tomato, I would
pick for you.
alone, I would devour it
sprinkled with salt.
after the rain now, I rush out
to stare into the pan
and still I wonder
should there be more?

les alizes (Martinque)

my letters home
what can they say?
but here I am.
here I am everyday.
at the same bus stop
near the graveyard
in the same company
of school children, workers
and mothers on their way home,
beneath so many crucifixes
my palms
ache.
here I am.
under the power of the same
bus driver, who counts his fares
one by one
dropping them into the box.
here I am.
“last voyage” once again
reads the abandoned freight car.
here I am.
the same hill,
the same walk
and the black dog
who startles me
each day,
the mango tree
that calls to mind
Kali, with her hundred
heavy breasts.
here I am.
here I am in the black sand land -
in the distance far off.
here I am.
here I am.
my letters home,
what can they say but
where, my love
where are you?