The worst thing that could happen did. She had a little girl who died. They took his parents while he hid. Your wife committed suicide. The guards raped him with a broom. He was beaten and left for dead. She woke to someone in the room. Then he was on her in the bed. The…
Author’s Note: The speaker of the poems in The Golden Abacus is a lynched man. As his body decays, animals, the wind, carry the body to different parts of the world. What isn’t carried away seeps into the earth and travels back in time as it mixes with the earth and stone. He, the body,…
Great Crested Grebes It is spring—let us call it spring— where February tips the wings of March with whitened skies; here, where this dance of birds is the slowest, kindest measure, the arc and rainbow of their mirroring a graceful shimmer and a bright display. The water and reflection ask no question of themselves. Headshake,…
i. Rahim Oh my son Let my love cushion the weight of your head. Let me take your hurt I will hold it while you rest I will fold it into my body. Sleep, my angel, my flower, my brave, sweet boy. [Child with extreme hydrocephalus—deformity of face, body and ear—and defects of…
My first steal: an ice-pop, coaxed from the cornershop freezer and lifted: a brittle, syrupy limb that fused—beneath my shirtsleeve—onto my skin. Second, a tidy slice of apple strudel (cadged behind the café proprietor’s back). Its fudge of apples branded my pocket with a bloom of grease. Years on, the shoes: size eight men’s brogues….
She says it’s haven’t, not ent. Miz Jezameen Henacre wears long-tailed gloves spilled over her skinnies like milk froth. She fears palm-skin maybe, its thinness. She teaches me how to say her name, sharpen the een. She totters her bell skirts, her own self, here from the Mission house midway through Sundays, when our floor…
a little one, drab, barely skyborne, with nothing of the gut-unraveling acumen of the scavenger this is Jackself limping across marshland, making a decoy of himself, piping up when the day goes dim, so close to the ground he’s almost it small wonder Peewit is the name the other boys have given him, not Jackdaw, not…
Lately, I see through a narrow chink in a stairgate. I see doors and think: can I get my pram through that? In the park, I dole out small snacks— ricecake, popped grapes, elven cheeses. If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would be infinite but I have closed us up in stacky cups,…
When my mother says I was her kit taken from her too early, I think not of cats but a wolverine, my devourer of snowfields, who, when she can find no more prey, eats herself, even the frozen bones. I crawl down the black phone line as if it’s an umbilicus to the last refuge…
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