Aboard ship, a year is a story / we tell ourselves in light, intensity / marking movement we cannot / make ourselves.
“Did I wake you?” he asked / like children, / as if anybody could // I smiled at him, and said / “only when it matters.” // They shot us both at dawn.
If my place / in the universe were at even a small remove / from yours, my ugly heart would pirouette / out across the roof of the world to a ledge / off which I’d leap / towards you.
These are the whispers of death as they shuttle back and forth, through the tapestry, through the cloak, crossing and double-crossing, through the weave, the weft and warp, warping the soldiers and swords and crosses and fields of red and white and blue and red again.
I could hear the quiet behind me and feel their eyes as they watched me go. Waiting to see if I staggered under the weight.
I vowed not to need, / for me to be // instead, smaller / more free, // a pink apple / cut.
What happens after a national crisis? / Nothing really, smog just / caresses the city. Leftover women, / growing numb as we suck on / a persimmon’s orange flesh.
Jordan was inextricably articulated as a living, breathing, and dunking vindication of the mythological American meritocracy.
We entered an area where the enemy / was known to use a mix of gases / they called Simple Euphoria. / Scents of orange, honey, and rose / drifted through us. We were reduced / to children with magical gifts, / making shelled buildings levitate, / or windows bulge like pregnant bellies.