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Translated from the Chinese by Liang Yujing “Happy Spring Festival …” I say to the sky.It looks clear and bright. I salute the world.It keeps silent. I greet humankind.The large crowd, once there, are all gone today. Seen through the glass, the world is empty.Where are the people? They seem to be wrapped tight…
I must have been sitting at the wrong table—the conversation was about chilblains,someone insisted only the British knowwhat they are—who among us had hadthem, those red eruptions of welts onhands and feet shivering in the damp cold?No one.(I wanted to change the subject so I didn’t saymy father had chilblains when he swamin our icy…
people like to say, though younever liked when I said itabout this painting, your portraitof a sad clown—your favorite kind.Hair mussed, her greasepaintfaint but still there, she stares outinto an empty place beyondthe unframed canvas. What can I sayto make her stir? Even as a kid,I knew immediately—it was you, Mom.“Not a self-portrait,” you insisted,though…
On the special ed school tour, he asks what is that tiny room with the tiny window, and the assistant admissions director tells us it is the seclusion room. We look at the closet-size featureless space with the metal- reinforced door and large thick steel bar on the outside, and our faces are not as…
How to describe the color of a pond gone fugue in autumn wind surface tinctured blue, sky-stained and deeper water tea-stained from steeping in peat that netted entanglement that took a thousand years to form. How far the land can go in telling a story, water dark as obsidian night toward which I progress every…
Translated from the Braj Bhasha by Chloe Martinez Listen, his gorgeous face is all I can see. I’m living and breathing him; he stays rent-free in my mind— what I’m saying is, I keep seeing my beloved. Wherever his feet have touched the ground, I start dancing. I’m telling you: his face. Mine. Transfixed. Mira’s…
Dear Dactinomycin, I have a question: How do you save a body from the body itself? Your job: stop cells dividing, freeze growth. The proof: hair coming out in clumps, disappeared eyelashes, platelets drained so low they called for a transfusion. A mother’s job: grow a small body, then grow it up. Even volunteer to…
— after C. D. Wright’s Casting Deep Shade “Beech is Anglo-Saxon boc: book, document, or charter,” she (C. D.) writes. “The shoots grow faster in the dark,” she writes in her 250-some page diary of obsession. Here, now, at the smallpox cemetery near where I live, the shin-high marble grave markers, corners softened, stand canted, like awkward lumber….
In an old story, the Almighty shaped clay with His hands to fashion the first man. In this story, enslaved hands shaped clay to make bricks to build storied big houses that will stand in this land. Both stories lead on to sagas of births—natal tales filled with first wails and nations of folk and…
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