If I were to leave my body behind for the night, I wouldn’t go far. I would hover; wrap her in company. If the pain stayed with sinew, I would sing songs, full-bodied. I would float in them; fight to memorize. Maybe she would remember in the morning. If the pain stayed with me, I would still fold close. I would look at her resting, … Continue reading 100 / for the night
A poem cannot be a pigeon. It cannot be the wattled beak that cracks the stale bread, it cannot be the craning neck that whips the air. It cannot be the tail or toenail, crop, shield, or eye. Certainly not the watchful eye. A poem cannot see the stranger, in ultraviolet glory, take crumbs out of their pocket and shed feast over the small hungry … Continue reading a poem cannot be a pigeon.
The Sun is singing in a staircase, somewhere. In the alley outside my apartment, rain is playing Moonlight Sonata inside an abandoned glass vase; every splash, a note that echoes. My mind is building fireslime to seep myself in, despite best efforts. I slice the tomatoes for simmer anyway, and the rice pours into the pot with a soft and soothing shhh. Shhh, shh, it … Continue reading 14