Poetry – Winter 2016
always unable to pass
checkpoints, traverse your canyons. Punished or blessed,
I can’t tell through the ache, my body
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of the only brown person in the room.
These trees understand PTSD; their branches are hacked everyday. Purging in autumn, reborn every spring. They share in bounty, they share in pain.
We don’t speak the same
language at home, can I teach you
the word for peanuts staining newspaper