Poetry

"My father is long dead, and I was / faithful to the last. Still, postcolonial / that I am, I have built my own myth / of departure,"

"because memories get written into corners / and a room has way more corners than a person"

"That’s how / it works— / whichever hand / wrecks the largest / bit of bone / wins / the right to wish."

"I think it’s a gas, / or a vapor, or the dust / swept up from the front / of a corner store—"

"perhaps his camera sought the places / mine were banal / where hyacinths bloomed / of his hopes or nostalgias"