Eileen R. Tabios: California Poets Part 10, Three Poems

Eileen R. Tabios

April 2nd, 2026

California Poets: Part X

Eileen R. Tabios

Three Poems

Lazurite

lavender means love

waits, thus

agony

on the savagery of dreams imposed by a wait

A witch who inhaled everything without resentment from all her ancestors also provided etymology’s root for “Anonymous” by refusing to reveal her name. In the time before cities, she stumbled in a forest. She fell before a fallen tree trunk. She reached under cuprorivaite skirts for a knife whose blade once cut her hair so she could braid a rope. Thus, did opportunities for departures become the blessing of infinity. From what lightning felled, she carved a wooden cauldron. Within its core and as fires surrounded the forest, she alchemized peaches, plums, peonies, and violets atop an earthen base of leather, patchouli and vanilla. In a future century, they will call the scent emanating from her efforts as “Byredo Bibliotheque” parfum and price it shamelessly for Korean chaebol families. Through comparison, this perfume’s multi-layered density transformed lavender from lovely to, not even pastel but, an approximation of the most benign pastel. Approximations of the benign never change an inherited world. His shirts rejected the periwinkle flower beloved by gentility and civility; he chose to be wreathed in the philosophical scent that took its cues from old books with leather-bound pages nestled amidst cashmere combed off Changthangi goats by Buddhist monks in Ladakh. For decades before their first encounter, he walked amidst her scent brewed by a sorceress; to bear the weight of his waiting, he allowed scent to become a sunlit anaconda curled around his shoulders. Waiting inflicted an interval so excruciating that any dream with her absence savaged him. The secret to lavender’s cruel banality is its prescribed wait for the salubrious effect. Maddened, he lost patience with waiting for philosophy’s adopted scent to open her eyes. Waiting with increasing earnestness, he turned primitive. What was once watery blue in his eyes became lapis lazuli.

How Indigo Broke With Sunlight

No one is born for

hardship. We only survive

earthquakes shredding chosen roads

strive for the violence that holds itself back from breaking glass

Scars on a chef’s hands form medals of honor. He most cherished the wound whose original cut was swiftly followed by a kiss from lips steeped in the Carolina Reaper, the lethal but ever-grieving child borne as a Habanero and Ghost Pepper hybrid. The gash came to join Paul Eluard’s measurements of “wounds that simply would not close.” Nearby scars pleaded with this tear to join them in cauterizing against more pain. But the wound’s heat surpassed any fire thrown off by medical technique. So many elements in this universe and its parallel worlds are not fated for healing. But so many matters also should require no healing as their griefs never should have begun. This is where time manipulation begins. See a pink wound from a plumeria petal still fragrant though it’s falling. See a silver wound from a cat’s claw dislodged from its owner due to age. See a yellow wound from a baby rattlesnake crushed against black asphalt. See a gold wound from a broken link on a necklace that celebrated an unknown couple’s 50^th wedding anniversary. See a scarlet wound from a battered woman’s lips forming a circle in mid-scream. See an Icelandic blue wound as the metaphor for a grief that will not cease shuddering. See a green wound on an overrated brass medal. See an invisible wound for permanently evaporated honor. See a wound eradicate appetite in Sri Lanka despite Chef Lalith Kumar’s gold leaf Italian cassata flavored tenderly with fruit-infused Irish Cream and served with a mango-pomegranate compote, Dom Perignon champagne sabayon, and a chocolate carving of a stilt fisherman clinging to a stilt. The stilt was connected to an 80-karat aquamarine. That gemstone accompanies him every day, along with loose change and keys in his pants pocket. (A pocket hole can widen as a portal into a parallel universe colored entirely Jokaero Orange.) He keeps that gemstone to remind him of a transparent blue that colors both sunlit ocean and the long, flowing tresses of a woman whose absence is the biggest laceration among his wounds that refuse to heal. Occasionally, he reaches into his pocket for the aquamarine to raise it to the nearest light. Then he lets his anger flow into the stone. When its color darkens towards indigo, he will remember how Brazilians associate its shade with devotion and sacred mourning. He is mired in a tunnel but his eyes lost a fixed color a lifetime ago, enabling him to discern light ahead despite a forward path whose length stretches as long as infinity. He has inhaled the knowledge of a thousand libraries. Soon, he will straighten rainbows to bend time into a curve and recover what should never have been lost, what striated blue when the color should have remained as constant as waves returning to oceans.

The Spy Speaks While Asleep

When memory fails

look for fertile cherry trees—

blossoms become fruit

survive for advantages

When an action is forgotten, how to perceive its effects? Consider how an action becomes forgotten. When unpleasant events occur, coping begins through the first impulse of disbelief—such is the case for most humans. I implicate myself: such is the case for me. I prefer avoiding brutality. But let me share the secret to many successful relationships. Those who lapse to denial should partner with those who confront brutality. The strong gives strength. The weak reminds the strong of the slippery slope known as loneliness. (To be lonely is to form mouths into prunes—not a small thing to avoid.) Because the weak far outnumbers the strong, most relationships will fail from imbalance—math is often harsh. But here is the secret to the human race’s endurance: it relies on the achievements of a few while the majority are expendable. Don’t shoot the messenger: my lucidity is hard-earned. I’ve sacrificed the affection of many because I recognize the methods of survival. The fewer it carries, the longer will the planet last as green. Fairy tales are fiction: there are limits to love. Always listen to professional spies who survive.

Author Bio:

Eileen R. Tabios has released books of poetry, fiction, art and experimental prose from publishers around the world. Recent releases include the poetry collections Engkanto in the Diaspora and Because I Love You, I Become War; a novel The Balikbayan Artist; an art monograph Drawing Six Directions; an autobiography, The Inventor: A Poet’s Transcolonial Autobiography; and fiction/art collaborations with harry k stammer, Getting To One and The Erotic Space Around Objects. Her body of work includes invention of the hay(na)ku, a 21^st century diasporic poetic form; the MDR Poetry Generator that create poems totaling theoretical infinity; the “Flooid” poetry form that’s rooted in a good deed; the monobon poetry form based on the monostich; and a first poetry book, Beyond Life Sentences, which received the Philippines’ National Book Award for Poetry. Translated into 13 languages, she has seen her writing and editing works receive recognition through awards, grants and residencies. More information is at https://eileenrtabios.com