ExploreHistory & Politics
I’m afraid to say anything or nothing, I’m white & unalterably broken.
A story about what changes and what remains the same, in just six words.
History howls for direction so I remind him how the hero was lost.
For my vacation last summer, I visited the Bateer family in Xiwuqi.
Neither blood nor belonging accounted for my presence in Ghana.
Lebanon’s dreams of a homeland were fading with every rocket launch.
They went to pray for the dead. It was important to shed some tears.
Man is always beginning everything anew, even in his own life.
Chess was a humiliation that hung over him like a leper’s bell.
My daughter’s favorite game is Holocaust. She’s quite inventive.
I was convinced she’d be back in the morning, like the sun.
I was writing copy for cheapo furniture for a crummy ad agency.
The animals are dying. All the beautiful women are dying too.
Since I am in my seventies, it is now or never, and I know it.
Crows rasp from branches, scatter debris across unfinished plots.
He said he had come back to the prison because it was home.
Devanand Simon was twenty-five when the bodies fell from the sky.
Alva knows the storm is coming. The ground is falling away.
I stand within her walls with not a shred of terror, not a word of jeer.
Lost land, this is a song for the scars on your back, for your blistered feet.
I recoil from the certitude that religion can give a person; it’s horrific.
Refuge, Your church is often a house. Your Word is a house.
I tried mightily, but no longer could I ladle those ancient words into the air.
I only feel that here, only here, in this one place, a small rise.
Keely finally stops crying when they step outside. The shock of cold.
Your image is on my credit card, you and the old red, white, and blue.
The dead children were wheeled away, covered with white sheets.
In other words, beachfronts like Bolaño’s and mine are Nowhere.
I hate it here, but I’ll make the best of it, because that’s what mothers do.