You pressed your palm towards me,
a force of white air smacking my face
in an exasperated sigh
which dares to whisper a name I cannot seem to shed
even in my most desperate metamorphosis
The lines of your palm
read like a mass grave
red as the blood conjured by firing-squad sorcerers
the soft sloping of arches that mimic
mountain peaks filled with blue ghosts-
My lost Moravia. Read More
there is a voice behind
each morning prayer that
wakes Jerusalem before the
rooster’s shrill cry -
it was a boisterous thing,
it was small; tiny itch
nestled between vocal chords,
brief settler - barely a home
at all -
much like the heart
whose swelling cries & floods
& tears membranes with its
wanting & maybe wanting
is its own home - Read More
You were the wrath of a rock with mouth opened. Read More
With a face through which death has passed, you came back
with shoulders which changed the wind’s path.
I am all the sad women, Read More
women who bring loneliness to bed.
Cold passes even the surface of the house;
Beneath the wallpaper it becomes jaundice . . .
wun wahine wit wun glass eye
studied da bottom Read More
of wun wooden poi bowl
When I see a cardinal in February, I think of snow Read More
even as I stand on a green lawn beneath palms
and plumeria, watering the grass. I think the bird
I did not find the lost oasis Read More
of Zarzura, nor spears and swords
of Persian armies drowned
in sand, not even the wreck
of Count Almasy’s plane,
dear baby with your hands in the air Read More
tears in your eyes and explosions in your ears
Excuse me miss Read More
Maybe it’s the dim lighting
but what is your ethnicity
or the aroma of spices
because you’re too beautiful
but a funny thing happens
to be Native American
"All cargo must filter through a beagle’s wet nose
though no hound found me in 29-E,
coiled behind a toddler’s homesick wail." Read More
"Roaming across the Zumwalt Prairie, Read More
I play my flute.
The Nez Perce know I am coming when
a tune in my key approaches."
"The summer heat wave hung, heavy on our bones, Read More
and fat flies droned on the windowsills.
Our airedale hid, snapping at our fingers.
She would not leave the cold dark space beneath
our back door steps."
"the Fantastic Four is tré shitty but tough shit. Michael B. Jordan is already on flame. on fleek. he’s ahead of the game’s excited red, to the danger zone and beyond. so innanet trolls seem quite non-toxic," Read More
"my mouth is a room that lights up in the dark
the girl who trained me spatula-full of radium in her mouth the corners gritty Read More
and glowing her reassurance that the paint is harmless taught us how to point the paintbrush tip between our lips"
"The pungent smell of fresh cut grass on a Saturday morning Read More
My grandma frying up bundi bundi
The scalding oil searing my lips and tongue
Too anxious to wait for it to cool"