Poems by Lala

They married after breakfast, 

Sunny side up, lifting the veil to see raspberry jam on her mouth

The Bride shouts “Good Morning! I do! Whatever the weather.”

July rains poems and The Groom uses thunderstorm puddles to dip his paintbrush into

He paints a portrait of fossilized tears of them over the years 

She whispers to him a sweet symphony, “it's exciting to pretend of poetry, I am my own bride in the Romantic books.” 

On a canvas, they were a sweet little family—

They bought a house in a state of mind, New York

Where they shared a Lover’s Pizza in the liminal space they had for toppings. 

His painting of New York skyscrapers a dream with pigments of possibility, reaching for the heavens and the near future.

He colors an empty house.

One where you can mow the green lawn or silver with the mirror a true identity

A honey drip of a new last name oozes from her lips 

Trees tower the backyard like their life in the concrete jungle 

A neighborhood bird perched on the window wants them to turn on the TV 

They have found themselves their own secret hiding place to lose keys in a growing junk drawer 

Frantically singing, “For Christ’s sake!” the morning gospel, before driving off to work 

All our life we deemed this to be the biblical beauty of nature

A key under the mat, where a door opens to the birth of a baby on the front steps of a home

Where she’s mom, melting tenderly when her children ask about God, 

“It's like learning how ride a bike,” she tells them

And he’s father, a secret chef of milk and cheerios served at a lover's coffee table 

“Sweet,” he said, “we are miles from wrinkles and fast becoming the rusted corpse of a bicycle.”