Hey hey, mezcal, cactus fruit, /
rose quartz—tectonic breath and lightning at the throat. The air /
in La Madera. Fetid marigold somewhere in the back of the heart.
RECENTLY PUBLISHED
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.
My body no longer
as if we could lay ourselves down at our own feet /
to mourn, as if we could shuck skin like a snake, slide away /
naked and new, some born-again eve.
