1. My body was colonized / in a language of silence. / Strands of my hair entrapped the ghosts
in the wind, / they were not held prisoner / but the abrasions kept them warm—or stuck.
You’re Chaos-born in a post-practice ice-bath; / you need heat. I fold paper into cranes and find you / hidden in each crease. I cut a hole in my skull.
The notes in the air are awakening, deep / in thought, and a little cold, probably / stretching just before the declaration / emerging from the bell of the clarinet that the boy
Nirbhaya is with a male friend, leaving the movie theater in Delhi where they watched Life of Pi together. They take an autorickshaw to a bus stop, where a man gestures from the door of a private white-line bus for them to get on.
At the end of her kindergarten year, we received a letter from my daughter’s school. She had missed enough days from illness that there were concerns about promoting her to first grade.
I knew about people touching me without asking long before the dry lipped, gap-toothed lizard man swooped around the corner of Coalman and Edgewater in a blue El Camino, all chrome and shine.
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