Poetry

scattered like salt on a sky as tender and open as a wound / each one / a distant city

trying to rearrange stars and stripes into something recognizable

we girls numbered snails and trembling tendrils of light, / oak whispers and green gooseberries to dip in salt

let it go let my eyes / fade my ears cease shut

so that I may take it in, / taste our communion / and learn what she means when she says / Mija, we are magic.

it seemed she had no idea / she was doing it     as if the habit was / a reaction to a far-off memory     as if / she wasn’t in front of us     any longer / and she was thinking back     thirty years

importance is contextual. like. the mountain climber tramples / on countless undiscovered plants on his way to the summit / each day and does not realize it.

met a stranger. on the street. he said, “you good?” / well, he actually said “ni hao?” which we all know is “hello”