«watermelon cider» he grabbed elote picoso, picante sandía in cheek – cayena, tajín – nuestros besos viscous, enflamed, misted as produce in sunshade pero to’ mejor con limón y sal «austin amber» spooked before the glow of spiderwebs in amber twilight, ahead chilled humidity in autumn disguised by artistry a thinning of the veils inebriation…

And I think I should probably laugh, think I should probably let out a long-suffering sigh, think I should probably throw my hands up like a kid caught with someone else’s stolen candy. And I think I should be more certain of what to do with those words, know their implications, know my own connotations,…

what is this thing called life?                      So fleeting is this thing called life,                            we journey toward its end…—Avi Fleischer. once i was a child, innocent & delicate & frolicsome / building sandcastles in the full burst of sun / & all i knew was a world, a circus of laughter / where sweet dreams tour…

Yima* tells me I must break my fastWith shrivelled dates and soured milk (I long for sweet fruits to disturb my insulin) Grandma tells me I should think notOf religion for compliance is weak (My classmates belittle me for my faith) I hide in large hallsWhere ancient scriptures judge me (Whilst others yell ‘infidel!, sinner!,…

Just because the bruises aren’t there doesn’t mean your hands don’t hurtJust because words are your weapons doesn’t mean the wounds don’t cut deepJust because I didn’t scream no doesn’t mean I didn’t fight backJust because I am your love doesn’t mean I deserve your hateI wish I was small, pale and fragileI wish the…

My father is an infinite house, bleeding A safety always changing shape. I love Him deliberate and patiently. He is full Of shit and I adore him. I call him mine And mean it. But never without guilt Everything he owns, he has broken • I have loved what has been broken By him. Been…

In this house are nameless shadows avowed by their unused existence. A house with an open-mouthed door wheezed into by the bellows of time. The curtain is a borderline gloom for theblue moon. The plates, the coolers and big pots are nothing but grieving of the lights. There aremeanings so significant that we are nothing…

   The visitation chamber fills with black men who take a seat behind the reflective divider. A lover presses her hand against the glass. A mother sobs into a crackling phone that’s bolted to the wall. Babies point at weathered faces that look like theirs. I am in a room full of mirrors as I…