Snail Paths
We rose to the
forest wishing us
away, asking us to go
back to America.
Category Poetry
“I remember on the bus”
I remember on the bus there is a word for a feeling
Grandview
most of my friends never
met their fathers.
The Man Who Talked to Trees
a century ago, father told me there was
an old man who had the habit of telling stories
Do you remember me,
I ask.
My words, dripping with fleeting hope, like honey from a baby's chin.
the asian-american chew
for leave of soft
ignorance, and inescapable
rhythm
Garden Plot Eviction
We noticed how most of the plots looked like poodles, overheard gardeners compare the superiority of sunlight in the plot versus their yards at home.
Crying at the Delaware Writer’s Retreat
Gaps between sounds deadened and dressed like a deer
one day from rot.
Growing Gills
My people be water people so long
they grew gills
my mama black
vaseline more high-top fade
more pomade pressed