Winter #6

My body is soft like the smell of amber, but I strain to thin it into nothing.


photo of three women wearing veils walking toward a building after a storm in Morocco

The Rites of a Light Heart

Their husbands’ rigid fists became hands glib with plant soil, and instead of bruises down their thighs, they saw hickies planted like booby-traps along their collarbones.

black and white photo of a man's hands behind his back, holding his wrist


There's been a mistake, I said. That's not my father.

Los Angeles Wreckage

She was born in Guatemala. She insists we watch shows set in Los Angeles.

Sense Data

skin, the bright light buzzed
again in my brain: knowledge


I cannot seem to document
my own life