Sticky Note to the Moon
What a dust bunny you are in space.
America hacked into you, put a flag on your face.
You are not the sun, duh.
You white twisty tie on a bagged day.
You …
The Murmuring Grief of the Americas
You are on the ground, wrapped in a ratty blanket at the edge of the cage. The interpreter wedges her way into the corner. She sits on her knees, brings her head to …
Read More
Harakiri
Yukio Mishima, why did you kill yourself like that? Why did you slowly plunge the sword into your insides and turn it? Why did you sit breathing in your slow death, watching your blood drain onto the floor—without …
Read More
Verge
Sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron
A prayer for daughters, for Myrto and Atalanta
τάςτεκόρας, Λιμνᾶτι, κόρᾳκόρα, ὡςἐπιεικές
Day-trip from Athens, on a day
Too fine for anyone to stay
Within the walls—and so we splurge
On time and …
Look, I said, I ’d love a revolver, love to bother the silence
with my aim: hole a target. It’s like bowling but with
a more fearful invention. It’s fun, haven’t you ever
shot one? This, my …
The first time I left home was before I was born.
I was barely formed. A scrap. A sample, at best.
I was more my mother than me, then,
I think. We can’t remember.
The plane lifted my mother’s
body …
Praise for the porchbed is praise for SLEEP.
Wrapped in cricket and cicada-sound sleep.
Rapt in rain sleep. Worry and all-trouble erasing
sleep. Smoothed-out sleep.
Counting sheep and Bo Peep sleep.
One two three four five six seven
sleep and …
Before they took Hong Kong in the nineteenth century, the British described it as a “barren rock with hardly a house upon it.” Now it is a place of tremendous height and stone, worthy of Sisyphus’s fruitless toil. The colonial …
Read More
Among the Losses
My lamentations have shaken loose locusts.
They whir in the burned-out nave of my body.
In the shower, whole decades wash from my body.
A girl’s hairless limbs emerge naked from the spray.
