Once, when I was 

about seven or eight,

I went to the ocean with my sister. 

And the ocean, 

big and blue, 

thought her so beautiful

that it embraced her,

like an old friend, 

until she too, became like a rock, 

at the 

bottom of the sea.

And I, passing by each day

in the morning,

felt the ocean’s dear hands,

pulling me in. 

Pulling,

pulling, 

lulling,

pulling,

Until I too, 

was a rock,

at the bottom of everything.

Black Ink

She slit her throat

with a knife in one hand

and her baby in another.

And when her parents

came home, they cried.

And when the kids at school heard, 

their faces turned pale.

And when the police came, 

the parents were already dead. 

The neighbors all shook their heads and said,

‘They were all lying there on the floor. The girl,

clutching her baby to her chest.

The man and woman with their arms

wrapped around their child. 

What a shame. They seemed so normal.’

What a shame. 

What a shame. 

And all the while,

the blood poured out of 

the baby’s throat,

like black ink, 

spilled onto the floor.