“The bride and groom grinned the way we did then, “The hash has been hand pressed with tea
into little cakes,
then heated over coals
by the gardener in the backyard
of your hotel in Kabul.”
with a mouth full of promise,
believing that even when it finally got dark,
our hearts would glow fluorescent,
for we had stopped the world from spinning
and would always be together just like this.”
“Elsewhere, a biblical hurricane,
but by me the Tchefuncte is motionless,
a mirror for cypress trees, and the lone chaos
is kids cannonballing for Jesus.”
“On February 28, 1979, I got dressed for another day of sixth grade in my newest blue jeans, a knit sweater, and a red satin coat Mom and I had found at Second Act used clothing. I loved that shiny red coat with the wide buckle, but I never wore any of those things again.
Coming home from school, I’d left the 6 far down the platform on the first warm, spring-is-coming day. I felt good. It hadn’t been long since Lindsay had stopped taking me, and it was the very first trip where I felt I can do this! This is my neighborhood, and I belong here, too!
I got off that train and made the mistake of letting my good mood show. I accidentally smiled at a boy on the platform. (Stupid! I’d believe afterwards. You never ever smile.)”
“My mother turned to me and said,
look, his skin is so soft, touch him,
and she held his hand, stroked it
in a way I’d never seen her do in life.”
“The bride and groom grinned the way we did then,
with a mouth full of promise,
believing that even when it finally got dark,
our hearts would glow fluorescent,
for we had stopped the world from spinning
and would always be together just like this.”
“God is a little girl with mud on her hands. She crafts the soft skull of an infant from the earth, cradles it into a face, thumbs settling into eye sockets, an index finger smoothing the angles of a triangle nose. A stick descends from the heavens to carve a mouth, to pierce nostrils and pupils. The mud baby is born, the size of two fists. It lies limp in the girl’s hands, the red clay staining her skin. Creation is messy. The girl wipes the mess away on her dress, but the red remains.”
