It could be a decade later, years of livingan accustomed, an unvigilant life. I trustmy surroundings again, like a personinstead of a witness. I could be shoppingat the grocery, choosing one of the fanciercheeses, when I bump carts with my ex,my whiteness. Oh my god, this is where you’ve gotten to, my whiteness exclaims loudas…
an apostrophe for Isamu Noguchi Is stone the opposite of dust? And if so, aren’t we stone before dust? And before that, some kind of betwixt? The mush insidea translucent chrysalis turning cellophane-clear when, all of a sudden, you can see the Monarchthrobbing and scratching its way into air— unlike a centipede that lays eggs, even curls…
My name is all this air and shaped soundin my mouth like an invisible mealand, most days, I tell no one howto get back home. Which way in the nightto go that will avoid the silent riverand bad neighborhoods and the trackswhich bend and groanbeneath the tiresome weight of trains.I show nobody my hands,and touch…
“From the Unsent Midnight Letters: Remission” —for L dearly beloved— you need rest but can’t seem to escapeanother quiet or not-so-quiet litany of reasons to spit the bulletof sleep what if I perish? your worry bells over & over—: although it rings outwork? family? desire? with time on my breath I offer the one lullaby I believebelongs…
I don’t know why I joined the white sorority.We whispered Latin passwords to each other.They wore white robes and sang to us. I don’t know where I belong.And the parties, like “Pimps and Hoes”inside a rented Laundromat with fake hickies and scars on our skin and pimp juicein pimp cups. Look at me: the only…
After he died, the mirrorsreflected everything. The half-face of his friend walking toward the door, his wife’s back, his sister’shands. I was there too, suspended somewhere in glass, briefly, indirectly— What part of me witnessedmyself newly without my father? I tried not to look. Cover the mirrors— Forget yourself to remember the dead.Someone show me how to divide…
I keep a few loose threads from each membraneand loop them through a needle to sew an Xon the sleeve of your favorite black sweater. Later, we make love and you complainmy fingers burn your body. I rub my eyeswith one hand and reach for your inner ear to burn us both from the inside….
1. A marriage is a contract to be strandedon an island with one other person who retains the option to sometimesnot even talk to you. And when sometimes is all the times, it feels like you are the last twoIndians, or Browns, left on the planet, and it’s Splitsville in Cleveland. Thirty-fivewhen we left each…
Logic—my father’s logic diedJune 24, 2009, in bright daylight.Murdered in the afternoon. Ihung up Missing Person postersof myself and listened for thesound of a tree falling. Thesound of the wind through treesis called psithurism. There’s noword for the translator of wind.If the wind is words, the trees areexclamation points. The spears ofmoonlight, question marks. Myfather doesn’t realize his wordsalways end in prepositions. I havea problem with [the moon], thereis a problem between [the moonand me], the problem is on [themoon]. What if he can no longerfind what is being modified, inthe way snow…
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