My birthplace is incidental. Never forget your Mother Country. Our town was nowhere, nothing but dirt. Our village was known for its temples and ponds. The way my mother ran the house was backwards. You don’t taste fish like that here. I don’t remember what my father said. We memorized everything our father said. Chinese…
A remote white moon was howling down with its man-in-the-moon mouth, and she swung out across the double yellow line to pass an ass-dragging old van—whose driver turned out to be the hero of the story—and we came face-to-face with a Ford pickup. I had time to read the F-O-R-D, time to reflect that the…
To the locusts that blur the tiny lyres of their shells, I leave my blindness at the end of day. To the distant whistle of the train at dusk, I leave the smoke in a girl’s hair. To days I dipped my body in, I leave my only shadow. To the gravel road that crackles…
Love not the rider but the old rider, the ghost in the saddle: Obey that ghost. A good horse runs even at the shadow of the whip. But we are not good horses. We bolt. We stand still in bad weather. We rely on things we know are unreliable, it feels so good just to…
When hope forms a bud of prayer, who picks it? Words in all languages yearn toward the stars, confessing and beseeching. I talk to a masculine higher power half god, half human. When he sits calm and golden, spine straight as the Buddha’s, my own spine yearns upward toward the clean sky of his face….
i. On the fourth month of the second year of the drought which brought so much despair to our community, the weatherman began to grow his beard. Inconsequential as it might seem to the rest of the world, no event in the annals of our town has been more contentious—except, of course, for the weatherman’s…
I left my house of silence and wrecked my body on the beach of travel. An ocean of bus lines, planes with twin engines, and rubber balls that tumble down stairwells. The road chooses women with shopping bags and greasy faces. It pushes them toward the distance of gas stations and beer stands. Because she…
In the B movie of our lives, there are no panoramas; our limitations have perfected the close-up. Pain is confined to what is visible: slump of the left shoulder, elbow on the table. There’s only room for subplot this side of the proverbial tracks. Sound of vengeance like a passing train, sweet and noble journey…
Retinal snowfall, anything that slips, where children kick a snowman in the dim winter increment, the gray of 3 p.m. Two red cars, one blue. White wing that dips and opens softly in the eyes’ ellipse, an n dimension furling at the rim— a down is paling—shyer motions limn, shyest motions adumbrate the tips— the…
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