My father stirs in the kitchen boiling coffee, crisping fried potatoes, night sleep a seldom companion. The sun a pale light through the windows.
−Hiroshima 1946 My mother When my hair began falling out, my mother got down on her knees and picked up one hair at a
Your thinning hair has the look of wishes. Even your skin is riddled with white space, a fiction. And your arms’ flesh-colored wash is