I love this late January sky like I love a wart I pick at absently, like skin itching, dry and flaked from the arid
How alike we are: nocturnal, shadow- loved, starved. Look at you— feeding on what little I have to offer: house scraps, overripe fruit. I
When my grandmother died, three rings formed around my mom’s fingers. First, India, where the gold-leafed elephants and relatives were, kept calling. Second, at