Reviewed by Teresa Williams In the aftermath of trauma and displacement, how does one become at home in the world and within themselves? Rooja
The name of every beau, I remember. Aproned Mom kneading dough, I remember. High on song, we left with Cramps’ guitar picks, car shards
She watches her clothes fall down chutes, the cotton swoop, the dull release of wool she wore and how it drops so far below
You say el otro día, and it could be any time, An afternoon of sunlight on red bougainvillea Or a time when the canals