No shardswhere one is bound to no place in the first place


all shardswe were clear on that from the beginning


Absence is always sudden to hear your voiceonce more more


echo than shrapnel qualia of the forbidden

transforms itself into wounds regeneratesa hydra...

The rice field birds are too clever for scarecrows,
They know what they love, milk in the grain.
 
When it happens, there will be no time to look for anyone.
Husband, children, nine brothers and sisters.
 
You will drop your sugarcane-stick-beating of plastic bucket,
Stop...

When I die,
bury me in the sky—
no one is fighting over it.

Children are playing soccer
with empty bomb shells
(from the sky I can see them).

A grandmother is baking
her Eid makroota and mamoul
(from the sky I can taste them).

Teens are writing love...

It is winter in Anchorage, and I am only as tall as the shoveled snowbanks in the parking lot of the pink apartments. I am old enough to have chores but young enough not to fully understand frostbite. It is...

When I die,
bury me in the sky—
no one is fighting over it.

Children are playing soccer
with empty bomb shells
(from the sky I can see them).

A grandmother is baking
her Eid makroota and mamoul
(from the sky I can taste them).

Teens are writing love...

This century is younger than me.
It dresses itself
in an overlong coat of Enlightenment thinking
despite the disappearing winter.
It twirls the light-up fidget spinner
won from the carnival of oil economies.
In this century, chatbots write poems
where starlings wander from their murmuration
into the denim-thick...