In the conversation we’ll never have,
I’ll tell him not to look too long at whatever remains.
I believe somewhere between the dead snake
and his dead friend, my father stands,
his back against the sun.
She stood at the altar of his casket,
read his eulogy like a wedding vow
i want to apologise / but i don’t know what for / by day i misquote
darwish / by night i burn with misunderstanding
it occurs to me that my grandmother may have had a richer inner life than any of us, that she wasn’t losing much at all putting…“a curtain over that bright cage” that is the world and its invitation.