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A sociopathic streak on my father’s side I try to put to good use.

And the starved heart starts over, writing one line at a time.

My brother stealing all the lightbulbs, my parents live without light.

Salt provokes, tenderizes. Your wounds, your dinner.

From a pyre on the burning ghat a corpse slowly sits up in the flames.

Arriving on earth’s paradise, wearing only light for their bodies.

A goddess was offended; her altar required my virgin blood.

But too much rain can translate anything to unspeakable.

With a hammer well aimed, try to destroy the whole with a single blow.

But we do despise beauty. We connect it with softness and immortality.

Here: geeky cyber-warriors crunch cheese Cheetos over keyboards.

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.

Let me remember there’s a door inside each flower.

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.