Dispatch from Your Fourth Month
Outside, bright leaves batter the window screens. Here, you are a warm weight pinning me to now. We will never be cleaner to each other. You have yet to…
The Ghost of The Yum Yum
My father-in-law’s hand-painted sign, locked inside, says, Eat As If You Are In China. Color photos of 1980s patrons line the walls, turn sepia. The Yum Yum on Race…
Eveningsong
A man at the bus stop lugs +++his cello with such vigour it scares me. +++Unlike him, I’m estranged from my music. The evening makes song from the hollow…
Un-Elegy, Or Written Fifty-Six Steps Above Montmartre
for my mother They don’t expect me here, in Paris. It is November and the trees are full of smoke, my conscious mind assimilating the last lyric from an…
Orfeo, orisha
Let not branch, fruit, and gnarled trunk deceive you—a tree is a machine. A chemist, too, whose shiny leaves skulk toward sun and translate its mien into matter. A…
Flight, dream
There are so many apples on the ground ++++++I am an apple no a bee no the bee’s stinger stinging my body ++++++Why are there so many apples…
The lake thinks up its shore
We took a chainsaw to the tree she liked to climb, let it rest a few days then dug out the stump, the patient roots. In its place a…
Original Sin
was uneven eyeliner done under the fluorescent lighting of a club’s bathroom. Monologues about how we weren’t afraid of the dead, ghosts, old folk tales, done in a stall…