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The Spiritualexpand_moreForgive me, please, for continuing to believe that roses are beautiful.
The men here don’t know where to place me, call me exotic grail.
If angels were made of music, surely they would vanish.
Rise the Euphrates, my first novel, grew out of a feverish dream.
Like a bird with a broken wing I will smudge the line of the hopscotch.
I keep an eye on my shit—this body, this lost cause, this bad joke— I want to be good at more than just childlessness and tying balloon animals.
It was a Hmong villager who roped you with dogs on the chase.
“Ki-Tae the famous pastor,” Jae says to her. “Can you believe life.”
We went flying without a map as naked astronauts often do.
The sense of power that flights of temper evoke will betray you.
The eyes looked into his own with a meaning, a malign significance.
He always talked of making money with the air of a connoisseur.
I could go in for some pie why the hell not, there’s so little time.
How do we get there, to where we can answer what the jingle is asking.
We’d never had a cross word, but I’d never corrected him.
You and the cat wish I were baking pumpkin pie and we were happier.
“Ki o tsukete!” she called, and he knew the words. Be careful.
