Translated by Romana Iorga It’s not here, the golden arrow of the sun. The day’s dusky blades rustle in the town square—teeth rarely
it smote me, and smoked me, and stoked me till the flames rose up inside me, and to tell it truthfully, that’s how I
Some boyfriend passed out in the bucket seat, mouth slack, my father’s breath drifting out of him. I smell my parents’ bedroom in the