The kind my mother spewed over the phone each night when Papa sneaked out for a smoke, complaining to her sister about me, him, her period, the price of saffron, the thievery of mango season, and I heard by hiding the cordless in my room.
SIXTY-FIVE ROSES :|: CYSTIC FIBROSIS
of when I was small / enough to trust a thin :|: woven / promise of comfort
Serenade / A Constellation in Training
scattered like salt on a sky as tender and open as a wound / each one / a distant city
trying to rearrange stars and stripes into something recognizable
ON ASKING MY MOTHER ABOUT WINTER 1990
we girls numbered snails and trembling tendrils of light, / oak whispers and green gooseberries to dip in salt
let it go let my eyes / fade my ears cease shut
so that I may take it in, / taste our communion / and learn what she means when she says / Mija, we are magic.
it seemed she had no idea / she was doing it as if the habit was / a reaction to a far-off memory as if / she wasn’t in front of us any longer / and she was thinking back thirty years