Poetry

My children are white. I’m just as white. Writing it I’m not less white. When she was born I said, “She is so beautiful.”  He said, “She looks like a white

“Children trap bees for their flowers the world traps people for itself” —Gu Cheng, “The Art of Pulling Strings“ Any author with an unusual death will have their life read backwards. Of course,

When I had no paper, I took to the walls. As pens were denied me, I came upon an old spray can with paint still in it. No, that wasn’t it. When

“The exile of words has begun.” –Bei Dao Still they are messengers, gray like the wall they’re up against, gray as the night in which they must travel by necessity, by starlight,

We go about our daily lives understanding almost nothing about the world: her arms, the black and white flowers, heavenly bodies in the sky. This is my brief history of happiness: someone loved