self-portrait as a boy languaging through fragmental spaces
the truth is/ my mother still tongues
your name at night/
but no language can translate you back to life.
Squirrelly Girl
It seems as if you’re the only thing alive for miles.
Growing Pains
When Ma burned herself feeding a needle into an open flame, she cursed in her mother tongue, the language of mountains: a lifeline I would choose to loosen.