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My mother’s house was packed, painted, put up for sale—sold.

The leaves of the olives were made entirely of night, as if cut out of skies.

I bow to the life being lived in this finch on my terrace this morning.

Let father be a man walking to the river, ready to bargain with water.

Yes, Eylon thought, he lied to Cath. Lied about his day, about the risks.

He has his hands on Nii’s throat, and this time I do not stop them.

He bound me to blind obedience, for which I’d shown a propensity.

The emblazoned vessel performed my false and vulgar life—I knelt to it.

“The doors are closed,” she said, and we would not be flying to Paris.

Who needs driftwood when I can bury myself in your loamy soil.

Just because we have birds inside us, we don’t have to be cages.

These natives have the smiles we haven’t seen since we were children.

God was surrounding the chair, leaves flourishing from a sickly tree.

One day, we will all turn into choir girls—all soft and hollow inside.

insomniacs gesturing in a cave of neon light the narrative of their lives

The air has grown inside me. It’s become a sanctuary.

My “lonelymaking.” Also known as my horrible secret, continent-wide.

The angel lay in his body effervescent as a flake of alabaster.

I slept but never dreamed there. Nor did I feel the need to court a god.

I repeated the name thoughtfully, then said no, I didn’t think I knew her.

We might have seen it coming, had we not had our eyes fixed on it.

If you hear your name again just say, Here I am. Maybe it’s the Lord.

When the population was whiter, they fawned over the Korean.

Omens from the Lord, or Nature, the clouds, some darker silhouette.

Zeus’s tongue thrusts straight and deep between my lips.

Here is where you touch the world and here are the words to feel its heat.

People believe; The whole world is part of something.

He’s not the skinny hippie all the paintings make Him out to be.

All my life I wondered what it is to vanish like a ring of smoke.