Category: Literature

My lamp will guide alone in these precincts.

or how deeply, how thoroughly, I am writing/ away a million years of history that erased me.

We learned to give him space, accommodate/his hours, leave the front door shut while he/slept.

I’ve never left that street named Winter,
where next-doors shared baked corn

Here: the bench where we wept for so many/births and deaths.

God, hear my muted screams.

That day I left a parcel at the post office that held 108 pages of my life, 795g of it, labelled and segmented and paperclipped