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Out by the shed covered in ivy and a thick layer of moss, the dogs go giddy over some slick scent along the fence line.  Among weeds, mud, and piles of leaves that have lost their crunch, a baby mole wriggles its
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1. By the time this postcard reaches you, I imagine you’ll be waiting at a train depot for a man to bring you a fake passport & the latest rumors about how your mother is doing back in a country of slow
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The sharp smell of blood when the carcass comes home. It’s two hours past curfew. Open flesh strapped to the hood of an American car. Never on a foreign car–something about blood and steel that can only come from Detroit. The violence is
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papa was a reggae man mama was a sweatshop b-girl she breaking, getting beat my father, a blacklisted Chinese red guard warrior began to spin her some Marley, listen b-girl listen to the sound of sweet Jamaica and the womb in mama’s
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Eat this light To come away From the shadow Of those rocks, The shore is no possession, And the mountains Are not for you, Come out to these plains, Where nothing solid Stands forever, Or goes tumbling into the sea.    
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