my body as landfill, as food for rats, /
as slime on plastic bottles and broken washing machines.
RECENTLY PUBLISHED
BRUNCH.
i am descendant from women who greet death like brunch. /
i do not know if this is bravery or foolishness.
Rippling Through the Dark
Light / traipses through water and water / envelopes my mother’s hands. / How her hands have torqued / my dark body—a kind of light / I’ve never understood
OR WAS IT A METAPHOR?
The mouth is a hollow / for language. I know little of what shreds a child into two countries, but I think joy returns to the / flushed roof of my palate when my mouth tenders Igarra.
“a poem for Justin” and Two Poems
because you asked me your first word /
& i said i didn’t know /
& i could have told you a good lie /
& made that a small poem we share.
“Most of the Children Who Lived in This House Are Dead. As a Child I Lived Here. Therefore I Am Dead” and Three Poems
Next to the black upright piano was a window, which looked out at the blue pansies, which were also sometimes purple, or yellow, like the word contusion.
