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  • When she wakes, rigid

    January 17, 2017

    Stroke her hair, and rock.

    Open the curtain—show her the flashing,
    the bright erasures of light, the careening trees,
    that suffocation, apocalypse, another plummet
    down the stairs into…

  • Flurries

    January 13, 2017

    I first tasted snow when I was five.
    Frozen doilies, one after one, melted
    on my tongue, tingling as ice cream.

    When I was a teen on…

  • Creating Space

    January 13, 2017

    Our mulberry tree was a jungle unto itself. Despite its constant exposure to the blazing Phoenix sun and a sporadic watering schedule, it had…