We’ve had this talk before when I didn’t know who else would listen to me standing at the last bench of Leona Canyon—you know the one—dedicated to the Jalquin people circled by
The wholeness of self-lubricating antibodies inspired by knitting patterns cut and pasted into chromogenic prints looking like a goddess of that for which there is no god where blood of
Hear Lenore read “Yizkor.” White robes and prayer books automatically flip to the right page, and the cantor, voice of the synagogue, possessed by the spirit of the sanctuary, blesses us
A rubber dinghy off the coast of Italy cream cheesed two hundred and fifty Syrian refugees 29 men asphyxiated 19 women. No more treats from the table of the dead. Kamar
dumpsters, backpacks, garbage cans in the officiating moment alongside a sidewalk of cement slabs cellphones dangled people running in traffic faster than a subway pressure cooker ticking off minestrone minutes
Never meant to return, which is not to say I didn’t have dreams about the redwoods with their fragrant pine needles or the Pacific Ocean. Sometimes you can appreciate a