Our Waitress’s Marvelous Legs
It’s men I’m prone to eye, but when she comes
to take our order, I’m too distracted
to think beyond drinks, too awed
by the ink that garments her limbs
to consider appetizers, much less entrees.
Audio
Migration Ghazal
My ship is two hands held together to cross the water.
What hope you carry, don’t spill a drop across the water.
If one spills out, we push his name like a prayer
into the palms of the dark, the body lost on the water.
Smoking Ceremony
You call me arsonist, mad firefly: our photos curl and crackle in the sink. Those years together burn—smoke thick with
My Mother Cooks
Our last supper together was arroz con pollo. There was
no wine. We had no disciples. It was only my mother
and me in the small kitchen. It pleased her to serve me one more time.
Election
On plywood walling off a stalled construction
site someone had scrawled: WHAT’S IT ALL WORTH
WITHOUT AN OPEN FREE AND FAIR ELECTION?