108/365 - David

David held our building together before it all went to shits, rust water spilling over us; David with his glittery things, objects d' manufactured art set just so, snow leopard robe, manicured shrubs. When he hit the road for Palm Springs, fluff doggy in lap, bad people moved in and the walls began to crumble.

107/365 - Audrey

She lives from her hips, the spaces she inhabits fill from there--gumption, zest, and a way of being that soothes like a petal bath. Half lush island, half dense city, she circles them both, coaxing onlookers into flight.

106/365 - Reiko

Reiko aimed with precision, half urban cowgirl, half Zen archer, each move preconcieved without regret. Her fuel burned with the notion of being one woman among many men, one wax lily among sharp branches with thorns.

105/365 - Charles

Charles--gray shirt and slacks and ashen hair--sat, for three days, three-thousand miles, back like a board, memorizing the landscape ahead. Forty years my senior, he wrote me shaky letters, enclosing trinkets like bracelets and keychains.

104/365 - María II

This little willow tree of a woman with the voice of a thousand-year-old witch knows magic. It rests behind her smiling teeth. When she sings, an ancient spring bubbles forth like a mother's aching. Wherever she goes, every living thing stirs.

103/365 - María

She is busy-ness, nostalgia, fire under water, psicología. María, la que toca, la que sabe--she who plays, she who knows. María, the muse. María whose sentences begin with words, end in gestures.

102/365 - Tomáš

You punched out the boy who wrote me love letters on toilet paper, your gift for me a bag of green candy on moving day. And there you were a summer later at the sea a thousand miles away, facing me, a stranger.

101/365 - Jana

From my hands to hers daily I passed my boy--an exercise in trust. She was wispy like a feather, devoted like a nun. And with each time the door closed, more freedom escaped my way.

100/365 - paní Kuncová

Above the jasmine, apple trees and hazelnuts, the dreaded window. Play, build, jump, hide, throw, do not look up! The widow is all venom, wrinkles and dark lips behind the windowpane that eats light.

99/365 - Lisa

Sorrow is your fertile ground. You feel it under your feet—soft dark mud the smell of pre-birth. It fills you, a winged bird shackled to the earth, like the tide that always returns. You built your house from it: sorrow rich enough to feed the world.

98/365 - Klára

You were the softest of the three, the middle daughter with the sensual lips, breath the weight of a hesitation. I wanted to unlock you, see the forbidden upstairs, your room through the curtains.

97/365 - Steve C.

Collector extraordinaire. A man from another place, another time trapped in the here and now. Dark, narrow shelves lining the walls--a thousand miniature stories, each a world. Who do you share all that you know with?

96/365 - R

He finds me many years and miles down the road. Those eyes that seared are now faraway, but his words stir me. They are a key. I look. No guard dog here. I am free.

95/365 - babička Fuchsová

A switch flipped in me from naughty to nice when suffering took on the shape of a well, her daughter dying. At five I'd resolved to soften all impact on her wrinkled velvety skin, toothless chewing, thin grey bun, selfless heart.

94/365 - Lukáš

Protege poet child, mother said. Eyes like saucers. Summer life in the valley where magic happened: theater in the attic, goats in the pasture, milking in the barn, proposals on hey, first taste of liquor.

93/365 - Jose

We get lost on the dusty road between tall reeds, trying to reach the sea, so we return to the village where dogs bark at the moon, laundry hangs behind the tavern, eagles hide on skin under shirts.

92/365 - Mario

Mario of the rock, the lake, the sea, and boat. We meet climbing barefoot above a waterfall where donkeys carry gringos up narrow paths over turquoise depths, agave, sage and aloe. We walk in the waves, make love in candlelight.

91/365 - Alun

Toothpick body, empty eyes—the youngest soul from the "old continent." He speaks with his sailor molasses voice and the ladies go wild. He dances, but not with me. A pirate and school teacher—a combo made in hell.

90/365 - Mrs. Kučerová

She wandered the halls--mismatched socks, broken sandals, coat over nightgown-- relating visions of relatives long-lost. And keys, always the saga of missing keys. She offered us her open milk carton when the institution called.

89/365 - O

We go way back to the slanted roof and Miles under the night sky; to his fling with roadside ribs; and his curses at buckets, brooms and water at dawn. We've traded turfs: palm-lined boulevards for dark medieval alleys——magnets, oil and water.

88/365 - Lada

You were my anchor; a soft place. But in front of boys, you punched below the belt--dull pain that builds armor. I love you like a sister, our genes almost intertwined, our roots touching across the hemispheres.

87/365 - E

Underneath the fear lies a vast ocean, a calm blanket over smoldering magma. Her hands make magic in the kitchen and arms revive the dying. But she's unaware of her own powers. The world awaits her awakening.

86/365 - Amalia

I still have the battle scars as proof you existed. And three photos. The size of your palm imprinted in mine, the feel of your ashes in my hand—ivory and turquoise—falling in to the gurgling river rushing on.

85/365 - Z

I found my freedom with you in these: the meat and drinks in the house by the cemetery, backpacking across the "old continent," your crazed-boy love letters about getting kicked out of school. The tears really came when you sang for me.

84/365 - M

I used to worry about you getting snatched up by the circus men; those who holler and spit and charm. But you, sister, are a flower made of iron, spun gently and sharp, planted in the same earth as I.

83/365 - Zdenka

You set my hair on fire, wring out the last crowns from my fist, and I still return. You know more than I expect and, over tea, take me to Africa and into your heart.

82/365 - S

A thousand and one words from you to me and back, each one a bridge. But what I wanted was your scent, your breath, your flesh, your core—a flame that still burns.

81/365 - Laurel

You'd get tangled up over nothing. Red-faced, spinning every which way. But you had good ideas and a heart. Did they not see? Whispering, they took the trembling you on a long walk down the springboard. And then they made you jump.

80/365 - H

You split yourself to pieces for the kids, a raucous, and yes, blissful undertaking. But I fear it rubs raw the part of you that you should own. Will your small flame still be there, lit, ready to shine through when they're grown?

79/365 - Talya

Talya. God's Dew. Maybe a muse in disguise. She saw into the future. Had a way of gliding through life, the way a celestial being would. Everything she touched turned to poetry, and, like an apple, I craved her.