011609

I keep a picture of my mother and I with me when I go. Sometimes it falls free from my notebook and I examine it before I put it back in place. The photo is over twenty-one years old, and in it I am just born. She holds me in her hands and looks up into the camera with the glow of a new mother. I look at her and I am proud. I am proud of her in the same way the photo captures that she is proud of me. Without condition or accomplishment, she is proud of me.

011509

I lost myself in the abyss of a romance-

and again in a lifestyle that worked.

I lost myself in a complemented fitting

and the future that snuck into place.

I lost myself a hundred deep breathings,

of labeled and identified tags.

And each time I found where I'd been dropped or misgiven

I lost myself to habit again.

Madrid.

Madrid is 

love at first sight

and finding home 

in a foreign place.

I waited for Madrid, 

and she greeted me 

a warm embrace

on the coldest of days.

I waited through four trains

and days of travel.

Through turbulence over Ireland

a lost kiss in the stars.

I waited on the airport floor

feeding Euro coins to a pay phone

just to tell you I was alive

[but they grounded our flight 

for seven hours].

I waited through airports and white wine

and new friends loosing flavor

with the drop in altitude

and a rising intoxication.

I waited with the full moon 

as we landed on the Spanish desert 

dusted in unlikely snow 

and sunset. 

I waited for my bag for an hour.

Then 

I walked to the lady of my searching

and the pale eyes of my saint.

Vivid through commotion.

With open arms

and besos for my face, 

the city took my heart

and she led the way.