on the mandala (coffee table sacred)

coral roses open 

their faces towards

me and two flames

make waves from

tea lights perched

upon pastique la croix 

cans long empty and

repurposed half water

melons licking their 

rims and cradling white

font claiming “naturally

essenced” and the rest

of their bodies are painted

pale flamingo, like the soft

down beneath the wings

fold, brighter than ballet

slipper, many shades

lighter than barbie, a 

birthday balloon may 

be the best description.

they frame the vase

that holds the blooms

that sits upon a pastel

crocheted blossom,

pastique matching center,

with mimosa accents,

then sky blue laced in

white, an earnest leaf

green extending to some

petals, butter yellow to 

others, and the two

taking turns to accent

the furthest outlines

of their alternates.

each petal, of which

there are nine, holds

an object: one a silk

red rose i’ve had for

ages, one a red floral

poof with a tiny pink 

rosette in it’s center

licked with a hint of

new shoot-hued ribbon

i got at the dollar store

in queens thinking

i may wear them on

my tits for a show, but 

they went on my altar

instead and to accent

the bathroom, then a

white daisy “fake” as

some may say, with

vague yellow pouring

out from its plastic center

this was bought some

twelve plus years ago 

when i lived on menahan

street the first time, 58,

though it also sat on 

the table at the end of

the entryway hall when 

i lived there again at 396,

my last home next to that

is a pink rosette, amalga

mation of two textile blooms

a base from another bouquet

plucked off to fill the holes

in this house-sitting home

with something bright and 

pretty and the center as

if plucked from the heart

of a ballerina’s sugarplum

costume, tulle, translucent

and perfectly perky, then

we have two stones gleaned

from the creekbed in duke

forest i have come to know

as my ancestors, each one

fitting into my hands imma

culately, a tiny white shell

with the faintest traces 

of hot pink dust, remains

of acid i did on christmas

consumed in front of my

frida kahlo altar tongued from

its gentle lip and last a gilded

plastic carriage i found

on the door of my grand

mother’s old apartment

two months ago the night

before a new president

was announced i felt

tender i was driving home

and decided to take a look

at her house where i spent

so many nights and after

noons only to learn the

neighborhood was being

demolished, i got there

right in time and at first

had trouble remembering 

which door was hers but

when i saw the stately and

sweetly placed emblem on

the black metal mailbox

i knew it was hers there was

a horse in front of it, and i tried

to pull off the whole affair

but only the carriage came, 

little window quartered in 

four over one big wheel,

horse left running free,

my gift to the lineage.