Reviewed by Teresa Williams In the aftermath of trauma and displacement, how does one become at home in the world and within themselves? Rooja
Ashes from his body under my tongue, soft as an uncoated pill, life reduces to soft gray. Tiny bone fragments rough up my mouth,
Trying to suss out whether absence is enemy or friend, we sit side by side in Adirondack chairs, our minds in the flames licking
Pascal had it right: the raw night’s a riptide; oceans of emptiness yawn in its wake. On the thermostat screen, black tarp punctured by