the opening of a cut grape
the butterfly
if it were to lightly rest upon the extremity of the grape
and pretend to drink
if it wasn’t drinking
what was to be done then?
I would have to
improve how well I see, with these eyes
improve how well I hear sounds
and so, employing my hands
I noticed
the smallest of movements
(translations)
This week, ACM is posting poetry every weekday.
even baby’s breath is weary and stale
in their nostrils falls the hail
the country’s black men sent to jail
(poetry)
When I traveled to Geneva, no matter what else was on the agenda, a reservation at the Boeuf Rouge was required. I never changed my order from quenelle de brochet. I looked forward to the quenelles more than any other part of my visit; they were a reliable, savory anchor in my itinerant young life.
(nonfiction)
I would need help to enter, hesitatingly, into my mother’s sick body, to bite into her cancer, twist it every which way, let it melt on my tongue like a communion wafer, pierce it with my teeth and let out all its juice, its pus, lick my fingers. It would definitely taste like something unfamiliar, but I’d continue, that’s how the abscess would burst, how I’d heal my mother, how I’d heal from my mother, it would be enough for me to swallow her whole, she would be in me, and I’d spit her out again to rid myself of her.
(fiction)
Another Chicago Magazine 