Take a time machine to 2018
It’s for your own good, she says. Otherwise you’ll bake like a pork tenderloin. Or does she call me a pork tenderloin? Or maybe what she says is, Are you hungry yet? Dinner’s getting cold. If you don’t eat your pork tenderloin, he will.
Twenty Hard Things About Being Married to a White Man
If he spent years studying some aspect of what you think of as “your” culture, he won’t waste time arguing with you about whether it’s really your culture, or whether you know enough about it. Instead he’ll make clothing suggestions––sarongs, saris, dashikis, dreads, natural hair instead of extensions––and he’ll study you.
Thunderstorm & An Apology for Those Who Use Latin Midsentence
Tonight, we inhale combustion / quilted with orange residues / that leak from solitary bulbs.
Man with Birds & The Astrologers of Life
after Rufino Tamayo’s Hombre con pájaros, 1945 & Los astrόlogos de la vida, 1947
Red-tails are not rare—they nest in the trash trees on the limestone cliffs of Interstate 440. But wherever or whenever I see one, normal life stops.
The Diaspora of Your Voice & The Revolution of a Hand at Your Back
The diaspora of your voice is hatched from the space you refuse to continue drowning in