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Deathexpand_moreHe was trying to seduce me with his history, which was mine as well.
The people flocked to witness the execution of Ja’afar and his kinsmen.
If you let me live, I will buy you beer whenever I see you in town.
Men like me and my brothers filmed what we planted for proof we existed.
No one’s alone. Men kill for this, or for as much. And what of the dead?
Debra Hughes
Those under us are not dead. They are dancers. We are the music.
He pushed aside a photograph of a man with a knife stuck in his eye.
West Oakland was characterized by unemployment, poverty, and blight.
Say what you will, a human being has the right to their own body.
Owen’s head throbbed, his ears ached, and an anvil sat on his chest.
She asked, “What’s the weirdest thing you can do with your body?”
How do our lives disappear even while we’re in the midst of them?
Sister Barbara folded her arms like a forbearing husband.
Who was responsible for my father not living up to expectations?
What’s the harm? Will you fight even the healing powers of love?
Ajax killed men and then animals thinking they were men.
Bees kill wasps by gathering around and tightening in the middle.
The time a man kissed my hand when we met. Though he’s been dead for decades now, I still feel the kiss.
Fatwas condoned our arrest for the rouged contours of our lips.
His mother wasn’t there to meet him at his stop. She never was.
The cat was looking at me with an intelligent expression. It knew.
There was a shout, then a shot fired. I pressed the shutter again and again.
I’m recalling his socks, the inked initials, the splashes of blood.
A memory in the drip, drip, drip of the kitchen sink that won’t stop.
Salt provokes, tenderizes. Your wounds, your dinner.
I love it—watching gray light bleed out over the makeshift bed on the floor.
From a pyre on the burning ghat a corpse slowly sits up in the flames.
She commands, under her breath, You must be the son.
