In my memory my mother isin the shallows, maybeshin-deep, swishing minnows into a blue bucket.In my older memories my sister was helping, because she was;but we don’t speak anymore, sonow she isn’t. At least,now I don’t remember…
Browsing Category Prose, Poetry, and Art
Becoming American
I Writing about the ways your accent is at war with itself is like taking a knife to your tongue and splitting it into two unequal parts and then telling everyone what you did. One…
Something about Dizzy Playing Tin Tin Deo
Something about Dizzy playing Tin Tin Deo is driving a city streeta slow in the summer whale of a carwhen even without accelerating you are making every lightand the song is both your driving and on the radio…
A Slow Petrification
After Manahil Bandukwala’s “Petrify” Your body did not decompose into dust but began a slow petrification.There was no stench of rot, no flies birthed in your skin, only a rough texture forming. The rough texture…
Not in Ourselves
I. Theo Opening again the arrantcorrespondence—relief of the sown fields,bread of affliction:a restless brother burnshis way to harvest,painting space as thing,as woodcut furious,flinders of fire and leaf,heavy, sun-dense strokes, dark notes dealingfor fugitive effects;a red brother workingpetitions…