Category Poetry

The bonfire will be built in the encampments so it may burn the unhoused.

my father prays on a fraying mat

They teach you to you that revolutions are swift or that they never are.

And is God not a manacle

Outside the city unravels—billboards, half-built flyovers, and a guava-seller.

And is God not a manacle

I could hear the shuffle of a spotted towhee

tragedy strikes the exhausted soul who stops to rest

I grew up like a speeded prayer

I fish them out every evening, lay them down