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Justice & Equalityexpand_moreLet those shadows sift the spirits of their children from the silt.
she was right—hurricane being the name of the feeling, the twist of it.
Don’t start conversations or attract attention. Don’t be suspicious.
I taste on my tongue a gunshot of synapses warm and light like butter
He says the word robbery and you don’t know if he’s asking or telling.
Do we hunger after conflict as much as we hunger after justice?
I caught a breath of that fear, and hid, that day, from the messenger.
I made him love me. To feel abandonment—again.
Remind the children never to use the state as a metric for ethics.
The white geometry of caulk between bathroom tiles—I’m held in place.
Their breath rose in small clouds. Their flag rippled above them.
Over the air conditioner, she hears, unmistakable, the bleating of a siren.
His eyes rested on the trees. By George, it’s like the garden of Eden.
When I was a child I once hallucinated that the laugh track was for me.
“There’s life after birth! That’s what jails and lethal injections are for!”
The success is deserved, I think: certainly it was not lightly gained.
Ink to paper, she is inventory, has a price tag. A piece to catalog.
Late March 2002. “Mud time”—so called in Mad River Junction, Ohio.
through the trees, breathless, the grouse leads us steady as a rope.
Susan Ann so wants to be that girl—daring, free, divinely sensual.
I looked into their eyes and loved them, and wished to God I was dead.
Some days are stretched so taut it feels like changing might break us. We feed the baby bitter melon, flower pepper, bloodroot beet. The first snow comes in January, fresh gauze over an old wound.
Firing stopped, and Bedouins herded camels across the artillery range.
We called for the dead dog because toddlers do not understand death.
Teams spend days surveying the damage and label me a mess.
He knew deep down that only her ridiculous optimism kept them going.
On June 23rd, activists set up camp at New York City Hall.
The longing to know hovered like a star above this child-woman.
our hands are full of those women tricked or transformed.
An awkward, unscientific lie is often as ineffectual as the truth.
