I have a theory that greyhound outlets don’t work on purpose

my drowsy hand crackles the bag full of / braided hair full of braided time. the sun fills my ears and i sweat-dream it out: me, somewhere soon, seen but not noticed, smoothed down and seaglassed. unobstacle to. my eyes, bottle green and just as translucent.

Frequent Flyer Program

I can name any season, but the trees I love will die
where they are. That what it means to become a light

year, to become memory: never stay long enough
to know belonging the way water’s face knows the sky,

the world’s translucent lung—the deadliest mammal
& the quietest. Read more →

My Brother’s Ashes on Puget Sound

I run to the refugee hut
run to the plum trees, Öcsi, little brother
dropout, began to deal drugs
married a couple of times,
three daughters and twin sons

notebook of memories, letter fragments
if you die, and nobody claims your body Read more →

Ok, Cupid. Where’d You Go?

Chatting begins and doesn’t
seem to go anywhere in particular.
Conversation moves
from people never being prepared for snow
in a city so cold already
with how we treat each other
on public transit, to a sci-fi thriller
about a comet with a green tail
passing through the sky, while a dinner party occurs
and the guests start disappearing
one by one.

Two Poems

Because the veil was lifted.
Because the dog has rabies.
Because the soul sleepwalks into a mirror
and our desire is increased by difficulty.
Because disappointment is an obstacle,
like longing, like fate.
Because I died young and beautiful.
Because I will not die young and beautiful. Read more →

Chocolate Face

i had something called
a bait-ul-ilm teacher;
her voice didn’t sound like
me but she had sun
spots on her cheeks
like my mom did

on saturdays she’d line
us up against a blue
wall in the mosque
and all our tiny brown
hands would cake it
with fingerprints Read more →

Landfill

When I was a little girl, littered with scrapes on my knees and bruises on my arms from falling off the monkey bars, my parents would take me back.

Once a year I set foot on Venezuelan soil where people had my colour skin and the streets were littered with the pungent perfume of plastic bag pointillism.

A landfill has never been so beautiful.

I used to imagine I lived in one. Read more →