Poetry

What happened to the rat, What hast Thou wrought From on high, that laid her so low, Curled around herself like a nautilus? Her tail pointing to a distance we cannot traverse, Her

Tonight I walk south first, impatient with increments– with the hedge of peonies unwadding, with the Rome in chalk that walkers sack grain by shell-pink grain. The slowness of small dramas: sometimes it

For half a decade I scoured books, lost in salt stars and broken bodies, not knowing you ate the bread I begged for. And now that the library’s doors are closed and

Your father wears the day / as a shirt with soot-spider stains on his spine: / sweat-soaked, stuck like plastic wrap to calloused skin / your ears peering through distilled quiet / & retinas carving slivers of

“…the hyssop that springeth out of the wall…” — I Kings 4:33 The flecks greening skin after cutting collards Are good as tattoos leafing my blood-tree of veins, Mapping these hands I got