Here: the bench where we wept for so many/births and deaths.
Category: Poetry
Franco da Rocha
I’ve never left that street named Winter,
where next-doors shared baked corn
The Wren
We learned to give him space, accommodate/his hours, leave the front door shut while he/slept.
Final Draft of a First-Generation Student
or how deeply, how thoroughly, I am writing/ away a million years of history that erased me.
Red Berries
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
Flaking Paint on the Stanchion
Another smashed window moved into the Rice’s old house
Script
she sits in the hedge and types the air, looking busy,/
her seven-year-old wife gathers mud and sticks to brew soup,
for those of us who learned to speak in therapy
a rumblethis breath would take our youthin daily mute moments setthem – in a row –before comrade, stranger, witness,parse each word with hefta soft succour of violencebalm of pain speech actaerate each and everyfifty minutes to one hourlong self-indulgent diatribesin vestibules, in officessetting our prefixes, suffixes, in a fixed row—of wrong and right and did… Continue reading for those of us who learned to speak in therapy
untitled carvings
a bed, a pen, a tiredness.
Opening a Termite Mound
No dead thing rises from this tomb: /
life itself comes pouring out