What Happens When You Forget to Close Your Bedroom Window
Tonight I'll dream that a colony of ants has dragged me out to sea, where I discover my belongings and I have become so much flotsam and jetsam.
Tonight I'll dream that a colony of ants has dragged me out to sea, where I discover my belongings and I have become so much flotsam and jetsam.
I want to smash a violin on the tree it was made from. To soak up the blood of martyrs with my eyes, die a glorious death and live on, weeping, sweating blood. It's 118 in Siberia.
I had a dream where from an impossible height I took in all the splendor and all the pain we’ve learned to live with.
Changing the language we use when speaking about injustice does not, in and of itself, overturn the injustice.
Sometimes, taking a break from the news and work, I’ll spot the collected works of this or that poet and, for a moment, have context for despair.
In Xinjiang, 7,000-miles away, a morning sun, reflecting off the glasses of early risers, the windshields of commuters, is so bright as to redact last night’s graffiti: Down with Xi.
I’ve been hearing Save the Rainforest since I was small enough to sleep in the safety of my parent’s bed or snuggled with stuffed animals— pandas, giraffes, monkeys, frogs;
When children by gunfire die, when the dreamer and the warden clash, when statues betray the sculptor, we proclaim This is not who we are.
The flags are at full-staff Though Jackeline is dead Of dehydration And the Guatemalan boy whose name Has not been released Is dead Of the flu—
We have pitched an innocent man against the thousand blades of grass. Once a week the battle is waged; each green sword glints with dew.