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Room painted off-white, so the death rattle can lean off the wall.

Sometimes the old men held their fishing poles like divinations.

My cry for the first time fastened garlands of hope to the roof.

It was half the Spanish he knew—stop, I have a shotgun.

Truth, it seems, spills from movies and sitcoms in the wires’ wake.

No one perhaps has ever felt passionately towards a pencil.

The horror of the waste appalls me. This beauty. This habitation of dream.

My body. Stop the air. Travel by stopping, full stop, just there.

Years after the Sisters of the Holy Names left you unlock the door.

She had seen him take the crop to a girl for doing nothing at all.

There was a fish. And then there was the consciousness of robots.

Put yourself in bad positions, they’ll remind us. Address your weaknesses.

A man jostles my stride to the street, no shoulder on which to move.

My children, children, remember to let me go, delete my number.

The linebacker grins, but the lines around his eyes tighten.

If you are going to be my teacher, you will have to become a tiger.

She pulls quickly on her cigarette and blows it at me through the phone.

It was comforting to see her suffer the way we suffer, hollowed out.

Centrifugal force circled the beasts until they swirled airborne.

A woman pushing a walker understands—gravel can be pain.

I have seen your ocean. I have heard your waves beside my bed.

Raw, glistening—god’s design. Her newborn flesh-on-the-bone.

It was good they were Africans, she thought. It meant less danger.

It comes as no surprise that everything is flying toward one point.

Anytime I drifted off I wished to wake up against a cold, silent body.

It’s a mistake to be here, he thinks, but he doesn’t turn around.

She is a stalk, exhausted. She will surround these bones with flesh.

Watch out. That we thought him gone only proves his wily knowledge.

They tried to kill us, my sisters, mother, and me; I still have the scars.