The orange ranunculus
dropped its petals
like a soft feather war—
a dead fire bird,
a phoenix on the ground,
smooth still like the milk
puddles, lining the sink.
They boiled a thing
and it remained,
like homesickness
like depression, like ants
coming in from the rain.
Burnt Rice It’s a broken leg — as in not my fault, the reason I put food on the stove and forgot it (I) existed which is to say that I existed once, I think I was a fish. When you called me into the room to say I burnt the rice, I faded blue. […]
Read more "Burnt Rice"Signal I am in the presence of several little listens. Clearing of throat, move the stiff scorpion lodged in the boot of mouth where epiglottis flicks up and down like a broken switch. I cannot ignore the passage of claw from stomach to esophagus. I have a sound— bless the cricket and the kick of […]
Read more "Signal"Mongering what is the space between the brackets when the sky bruises easy? I am tired of pretending pink where much is grey. There are no lions this side of the fence yet we carry knives, whisper the beasts asleep like he himself. I want to rest the dust, quell the stampede that makes animals […]
Read more "Mongering"
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