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Family & Ancestorsexpand_moreAt a red light he touches his cheek. The stubbly skin is sensitive, febrile.
Flies at our dinner—Won’t eat much sings the tiny ghost of my mother.
No parent has yet been born who can save a child from childhood.
Men like me and my brothers filmed what we planted for proof we existed.
Her sentiments maudlin, malaise dripped like a fever from her pores.
Somebody would be a lot happier if she were more like her mother.
In the backyard I submerge myself in a bathtub of soil, soak with the hose.
He was ready to move on, to touch his patients, to cut them open.
Who was responsible for my father not living up to expectations?
Fatwas condoned our arrest for the rouged contours of our lips.
His mother wasn’t there to meet him at his stop. She never was.
They are glorious pumpkin-skinned messengers. I hate them.
I could go in for some pie why the hell not, there’s so little time.
And that girls came to his house all the time, cheap girls from the docks.
Her family was still poor and hungry and scared.
Like every thing made, the photograph intimates a view.
Is anybody out there? Nobody answered, and I felt archaic as prayer.
If life was exchanged, who is to say it flowed one way?
And the starved heart starts over, writing one line at a time.
A sociopathic streak on my father’s side I try to put to good use.
A goddess was offended; her altar required my virgin blood.
But too much rain can translate anything to unspeakable.
My brother stealing all the lightbulbs, my parents live without light.
My mother is queen of buttons. She shows off the prized ones.
Charlie wasn’t Lena’s first love, but he counted on being her last.
I tell my sister what I didn’t tell my father, I love you. Please, don’t die.
Ike’s voice left behind on the shore as Tina plunges in again.
My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.
My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.
