Another winter Of caps and jackets and gloves Reminds me what hands can do A winter of snow fog clearing To reveal what I
Late yesterday afternoon, three vultures escorted The night into the shimmering cottonwoods While they waited for the next morning’s light To feed on a road-killed
He describes For he doubts all logic And only his senses remain true He wants to talk of these things How the sun
“Folktales change form, forever lasting in the cultures they find home in.” — Kaci Zhang “Baba Yaga! Come out you old hag!” I stare
Mid-morning teh tawar manis—black sugarless tea—on a Chinese corner across from Beringharjo. Chairs with backs & high tables; good lighting & fans. After so long in
I could be a tree And you can find shade beneath my limbs I could be a tree And you can climb over me Just
By my bed, there is a figurine of a young girl with her arms outstretched and birds have landed on her. Though she doesn’t stand
The car ride was silent. Once we pulled into the driveway, my little sister ran inside. I watched her, as my mother once watched me.
My daughter’s happiness shines as bright as her white wedding dress in the photo highlighting three generations. My mother links arms with Dominique, unsteady on
Fleshed only to fall towards their own bad making, the apples drop cold to an early bed. Marred before any real beginning it seemed a