my friend tells me she’s been running in the cemetery in the afternoon she calls it just-a-garden-really first i am afraid & then i am afraid everything is cemetery & garden my late uncle’s flower shop my daughter learning to fold a paper into a boat sea salt marriage dawn old french music this vertical…
It could be a decade later, years of living an accustomed, an unvigilant life. I trust my surroundings again, like a person instead of a witness. I could be shopping at the grocery, choosing one of the fancier cheeses, when I bump carts with my ex, my whiteness. Oh my god, this is where you’ve…
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 inside a translucent chrysalis turning cellophane-clear when, all of a sudden, you can see the Monarch throbbing and scratching its way into air— unlike a…
My name is all this air and shaped sound in my mouth like an invisible meal and, most days, I tell no one how to get back home. Which way in the night to go that will avoid the silent river and bad neighborhoods and the tracks which bend and groan beneath the tiresome weight…
“From the Unsent Midnight Letters: Remission” —for L dearly beloved— you need rest but can’t seem to escape another quiet or not-so-quiet litany of reasons to spit the bullet of sleep what if I perish? your worry bells over & over—: although it rings out work? family? desire? with time on my breath…
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 juice…
After he died, the mirrors reflected everything. The half-face of his friend walking toward the door, his wife’s back, his sister’s hands. I was there too, suspended somewhere in glass, briefly, indirectly— What part of me witnessed myself newly without my father? I tried not…
I keep a few loose threads from each membrane and loop them through a needle to sew an X on the sleeve of your favorite black sweater. Later, we make love and you complain my fingers burn your body. I rub my eyes with one hand and reach for your inner ear to…
1. A marriage is a contract to be stranded on an island with one other person who retains the option to sometimes not even talk to you. And when sometimes is all the times, it feels like you are the last two Indians, or Browns, left on the planet, and it’s…
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