Puerto Maldonado, Peru 2003 There are more stars in the southern hemisphere, I’m convinced. All the grand small things of the night hum and whir with life, a bat streaks past my blind face and the river swells after nine hours of rain. Javier raises
Between a bay and a beach, a gale built from gray to gray: an evident, flatiron figure. Eastern, experimental frames, carrying a conventional crew of chance, developed during dead-rise displacement, furling forward, from a frolic to an extraordinary, almost forgotten example of exaggeration. Courtesy adrift,
for Anna-Lisa Hillenburg The kestrel clutched our ranger’s padded fist, its rust-streaked cheeks jerking quizzically from girl to girl. We listened drowsily in mist before the thunder broke, before we leaned beneath that tiny canopy to keep at least our shirtfronts dry. ‘Imprinted’ means she
Initial reports claim a white scar streaking the desert sky, sonic boom and wind, broken glass in Vegas over 300 miles away, a shockwave so sudden gamblers drop their drinks and remorseful addicts repent on Flamingo Ave. Star- watcher websites crash from the volume of
in the interests of overthrowing monopolised assets like male, God & I this poem would like to begin at the end there is no guarantee that the beginning will be there when you finish so if you can entrain odd sympathy and stop the clock
“There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know any of them.” -Sylvia Plath In Kootenay County, B.C. at the Halcyon Hot Springs, we pillage our backpacks in search of swimsuits and towels. Our blanched Alaskan skin
Columbine was a big deal. Gunshots indoors do not sound like what you think they sound like. You will get to experience that today. Let me show you a bullet through paper. Tell your children. Children, put your backpacks between you and the shooter. Paper
my cousin’s neck is craned into the shape of a decade his open mouth spread wide enough for his laughter to spill out & stretch its fingers into the fog of summer he is choking on the same story of me & my skin that
there was a painter who would paint on a large canvas. and then when the painting was finished the painter would paint over it in grey, and in white and in white, layer after layer in white, and every painting was a storm, a story
In my sleep, my throat was cut again, in that sleep my skin was whiter than our walls, when in waking it is more red, a constant blush of shame. When I woke it was to my daughter’s cries. She has words now. Spaced throughout