When my father measured women in percentages, I learned to chart myself like livestock—head, pelvis, torso. Yet the red horse leaned his warmth into me, the chickadees sang, and the body refused to stay math. Years later, back home, I discover what love weighs when you stop counting.
(fiction)
suns as yellow as ours
gleaming suns
from lives like matches
atrocious explosions
scattering ashes
like bright corollas
(translations/ poetry)
The latest in our FORTHCOMING series of excerpts from new books
“The lion tells them that he knows a field of green pasture where they can feed to their fullest.”
(poetry)
Another Chicago Magazine 