Category: Poetry

Where will we end up? Persistent hum of tires is our story, and eventually the color of each signpost has its meaning.

Before we’d been outside the islands of our shitty neighborhoods, we weren’t angry. Only when the sun beat down we dripped with sweat, revealed tanned chests in the backyard, and played the radio.

How often I have played the part of this poor fish skewered by a barbed hook it mistook for something benign

As children, our cups were never full; we learned to build our own thrones out of sticks and mud from underneath the bent willow.

An eagle seeks his nest after lifting up from the land with a groundhog having already fled from its body.

The berries remembered, though. And, how far away from them we had  to go to not live the captive life, our mere existence a sin.

I don't go often to the church in the village. The tall, leaded-glass windows seem as cold as the stone spire above.

We taste transparent flames, the spices and fruits for which we have no names. Savor the bitterness of ausencia while we sever wrists.