images like a Frida Kahlo painting;
a woman falling from a New York city skyscraper
bloodied with eyes wide open, images
of brutality in a Dominican Republic cane field
against large breasted young girls shining
in their last breath, all of it for love, love, love.
Images of you and I at the cafe where I learned to like coffee
pouring over frivolous details to you and you
learned women were much better weak better
than they could ever be strong in all their tender parts.
See the flutter of her dress
see the dust rising from the field
see me look up with butterfly lids
pregnant with tears folded over like proteas, descending
from such heights into the shsk shsk
of Waimanalo brush and the wild eyes of a mongoose staring
out at us that night when the moon was full and our hearts were full
with the yellow eyes of a lion
trying to warn me.