I want my web to hold. I want to repair what I have made. I was not given the gold hive. In me seethes the silk of invisible worlds. Spinning my body inside of hairline emptiness, I project
There’s this cathedral in my head I keep making from cricket song and dying but rogue-in-spirit, still, bamboo. Not making. I keep imagining it, as if that were the same
A spokesperson for a divisive president is turned away from a restaurant. That president delights in dog-whistle insults that fall just short of outright ethnic slurs—usually. A white woman calls the police on a black child selling water on...
It had been nearly fifteen years, and no one Ali knew looked much like the way they had when they were younger. She wrote Grace’s name on a piece of paper in red felt tip and held it at arm’s length in front of her. In the rush of bodies...
After pulling a score from the dumpster behind Krogers I stroll through sliding doors with egg-caked hands. The greeter greets me as I pass. I scan the aisles like a surgeon studying the mint
There is no title. There is no title. The body is content. The body is window. The body is container, curtain, chair, grid. Do you see? Bones & shoulders, a spine
The first poem in Leonard Cohen’s posthumous book The Flame made me laugh. Not because the lyrics are especially funny (although there are touches of Cohen’s characteristic wry humor), and not because the poem is foolish (it’s quite good)...
