November 28, 2017
Red-clad brides and white-clad brides
outside luxury shopping centers in central Hanoi.
The wide skirts of their Western wedding dresses
and their photography entourage moving
from one corner of the block to another
following the sunset light.
At a war site along the road,
November 27, 2017
The hotel where he stayed is gone; or rather, it now goes by another name.
The book I hastily bought at a nearby bookstore and he signed with uneven letters,
lost in one of my moves around the world.
He asked which book I brought. “El Informe de Brodie,” I said.
November 26, 2017
Spaces left by ghosts of other spaces waves
not reflecting but fizzing the moon
like an old fashion Alka Seltzer
If I dig sometimes I find water underneath,
a ghost puddle, out of place
November 25, 2017
My texts to you accumulate
on my screen
one after the other,
uninterrupted threads of silence,
tails on an abandoned railroad.
My knocks on your door
resonate in the empty hallway
with the sound of cracking
of a mythical half-human,
half-rock bottom creature.
November 24, 2017
The long black coat hangs in the armoire heavy with silence
decades of un-wornness a lifetime stint in the tropics
gathered in the seams
Dead at eighty six
she never returned
to her woolen-some place
November 23, 2017
They become alive in the kitchen, those wheat flour
particles that didn’t make it into the oven as dough
for our breakfast bread, and float around with the sunlight.
Dressed in black from head to toe, Grandma walks through
the beams and dissolves the vision. She stands by...
ISSN 2470-3834 (online)
ISSN 2470-7775 (print)