In Winter, Again The orange-breasted robins are in the garden today for the second time in January. Dozens of them pushing up and flying out from the wild red berry bush to the tall redwood and back, roiling lifting the air as if the air were waves on the ocean and the bird movement stormwinds. Below the bird wings, closer to the ground, the air…
A sliver of ice connects us and evaporates, / fades, becomes forgotten, / erased, / until one day no one will believe / the world was covered by frozen / mountain ranges
It’s not the boy who arrests me, it’s the man I recognize above the boy, a man on a balcony who’s dropping a wet skirt to dry over the steel rail of it, and a blouse, and a towel, and other laundry, and then blue sheets.
It was Ramadan. In the time of Trump. So you couldn’t just go to some restaurants, you’d have to wait until dark. I don’t fast, but to eat in front of other Arab Americans who do would be an asshole move, undignified. Dignity is my organized religion.
Only your great grandmother came straight from the kitchen to the table, still stinking of brine and iron. Resplendent in her Shabbos skirt, matte ocher blood becomes evening gloves.