Rhododendron blooms at the window,
lapping at the glass. Obscene tongues.
Their smattering of kisses in the wind,
a seasonal ache. Their leaf bobs—
the way they clasp and unclasp flowers
to mark memory and time. Rosettes,
fused mouths puckered into refusal.
Saying nothing. Breathing nothing
but their acidic earth. The loam of a place
unhospitable beneath the white pine
whose killing needles glint in shards
of dire necessity. And where flowers
bud and break, where the hummingbirds
careen, I am weary of this sharp order.
Permanent link to this post
(87 words, estimated 21 secs reading time)
Arrow straight, a procession of men.
The line hammered into a fuse
winding from one end of the building
to the other. Gilt into a lyrical fountain,
the men—gods in another country, made
small talk. Where, after all, was there
to be? And my father among them fussed
with his tie. And the dust had its own voice
which made the wait all the more beautiful
and sepia. And there were soldiers with rifles
crossing their chests because they were
the real gods here and because blood is
Diaspora 64 full post
(102 words, estimated 24 secs reading time)
We wanted to construct a livable world
but the pieces didn’t fit. We wanted
the barely there and the no threat to my family.
Wanted the unaggrieved clothes of someone
who belonged. We wanted to fit under
the sweet tent by the sea. Wanted the open
screen door. There were flotillas of us, yes.
And each of us was a new acrobat
for the circus. We were jangly and beautiful,
yes. We knew the mountains had the good
questions. We knew the midway games
were rigged. We knew carnival barkers
Diaspora 63 full post
(105 words, estimated 25 secs reading time)