The white-haired matron in the road-side hut rattles two bags, “You pickin’? Bushel’r peck?” Noa turns away, clings. I try: I love YOU, a
If I steep the jasmine and orchid petals from my centenarian grandmother’s bereavement bouquet and the still bright red tulip from lunar new
—beginning with a line by Keetje Kuipers The unspeakable spoken and spoken until it becomes bladed ball, burning star in your throat, spit toward dark. A tattered eyeless doll’s
the poorwill eases into torpor inside a small rocky crypt, its body so close to frozen even the naked, probing eye thinks it’s