Poetry
into the folds of the purple iris which, at dawn, / becomes the hub for spider silk, filament after / filament…
It is four in the darkness and you cannot breathe. / You cannot will your chest to expand, and suddenly, / this is all right.
we steal water when we make rain, the way / everything I have is from somewhere else, / from someone else,
We lean close to admire the web / then blow on it // gently.
Listen, dark one, as the sun sets, / the boxelder beetles come down / from the west wall
Kan Ren Jie He has started praying –my mother says, clenching in her handsa blurry…
I could tell from his voice / something was horribly wrong. / I’m okay he said over and over / in a tone that told me he was anything but.
