a better poet / could get that one down, don’t you think, Placido? Could you / sing it for me, omitting the bit on “stillness”? Yes, I want // to vanish only under the weight of silly things.
along the fields of cotton / your sense of ghost is in the mesquite, live / oak, and huisache. your entrance to all this / is membrane to every person that’s purpose is // now horizon.
it’s midnight: / I can see it in the living // room: it’s clear, I’m standing in / the image, distant: here // I hear, so let’s begin: //
You send the breath through the valves / over obscured waters, toward / the north of a second sight.
since that day, i’ve never had a beautiful sentence to construct / for the world. my dreams, since the tulle and the guns, have been misty.
Many kinds of silence attend these works, including the active repression of a writer’s voice in Kekilov’s case, and in the more pervasive, invisible silencing of non-European writing in …
In my blood, a continent. All the warring countries—almost reconciled. They breathe together as they weave through the marbleized muscle of my heart, taking their communion of oxygen, amen.
In January of 2020, two months before a gathering of this kind would become unthinkable, I treated myself to a $30 cardio dance class at Banana Skirt Productions in midtown Manhattan. We’d been …
Although both my parents do absolutely vicious impressions of people, Papà is the hotel-caged method diva, momentarily inhabiting your emotional truth to play whatever stupid thing you just said …
Miatta Kawinzi’s artistry is attuned to the pulse of their inner life, and often holds diverse states of being together with precision, through a complex and wide-ranging poetics. In the …
As she dreams, she knits birds onto blankets, sheltering them from the misery of the outside world in the new homes she fashions from her palms. Other times, she knits cushion covers, continuing till …
