You arrived with leather skin and six bags,
grey eyes hitting targets and a bounty
fit for a rebel.

Deadwood floods with gold rush wagons, slicked and sun-bleached.
A one sparrow panic stalks me like coyotes in the grass. Read more →

Of the films you never made during les années des plomb
my favourite is Territoire de L’instant (Land of the Moment).

After your funeral, I use the video camera you used to document my dance recitals
to film a horizon cracked in two. Read more →

You are light
when the sun is punched out
and darkness reigns.
You are the antidote
to what came before:
black blood, black heart,
hands tied, kneeling before
a ditch of human bones. Read more →

I feel so uneasy about the wind, my dress & the thighs poking from it, my hunger, how I look from behind, the sounds my shoes make even on carpet & carpeting, strangers, old friends, the stench of wilting flowers, cobblestone, the bars on city benches so that persons experiencing homelessness are unable to rest on them, rest, America, America, having children someday & childbirth, not having children someday & loneliness…