Poetry

I don’t like moving, too,being moving, moving myselfand by myself through space;it means permeating in a new way, measuring the daydifferently, carrying, as if onmy back, heavy as a dressing table,my own image, what I want to do when I get there, dealingwith my things, what movesme and what doesn’t, to action—and so I avoid…

Anhedonia is a subset of depression.It is the inability to feel pleasure. Step with me, mud toed and silent,into the mirror of water.Bodies remember the water,womb slick, the building of bone. Into the mirror of waterripple beside me, below me.Womb slick, the building of bone.Memory cold in your mouth. Ripple beside me, below me.Nothing sustains…

More than most, forthis I feelif I have itall is well:wrangled upinto a ball,handsome reelfrom wriggled scrawl,or lapping strandstwisted thin, thenturned aroundtheir spool or cone, inV’s, in X’s,so much there’sno need to thinkhow much is there.Soft, let loose, butcuts if taut, so,careful, snip thechosen spotto knot a knot orhang a bell,sew a book,secure a scroll,…

The problem is the metalmarks kinetic in my belly.The problem is their tinsel wings stick in my trachea.The problem is regurgitating everything I swallow.The problem, truly, is the feeling of my empty mouth.The problem is I have nothing to say about the warsor genocide except I cannot comprehend a godwho sheds mercy on those with…

The landlord was a blind man who rattled the front grillethe first of the month—or last, can’t remember, but alwaysit woke me, the rattling for the rent, his hand like a brokenwing shoved through a hole in the grille. He was vinyl blackand just as shiny. A glossy John Crow. Eyes milky marble,unblinking stare pinning…

I do not know what to say but that there was a deersitting in the middle of the highway. She had been hit,but she was alive and folded like a drawing.She was looking at me from her place on the median.The traffic was filing around her and I could notstop. The traffic was filing around…

I’m triggered by being triggered, my pain pains me, I’m upset to be upset, frustrated by my frustration, grieving over grief, outraged by my outrage, disgusted by disgust, elated by my elation, exhilarated by the exhilaration, ruptured by rapture, disbelieving disbelief, rejecting rejection, calmed by calm, having qualms about qualms, repulsed by repulsion, thinking my…

Too often I rememberbeing limber. Unfounded in a boundless sky.There has to be a way to rectify the unyielding. Ink on my hands,the portrait I’m drawing demands no poem. I’ve not earned the graceof metaphor-laced descriptions. My face, dark circles widening underneath my eyes,will not surprise your readers, compromise their status quo, make them ponder…

Us, we are morphemes. There’s no Maltese without Arabic—like one kidney couched beneath the other. The white-ribboned girl in the rubble is singing,her tongue’s washed-out fears in Arabic array.“Tmewwitna,” she says, “tiġi l-mewt u tmewwitna.” She’ll hammer the question, she’s stalking for answers,each consonant caught in the stalk of her throat.The white-ribboned girl in the…