Poetry

A blue heron perched on a log in eagle creek sun beats down on brown wooden board walk the starlings sing as the heron stalks its prey Where do the good things go? When someone isn't there to see it. What does the Heron do, when it's not captured in film? When the creek dries up in 40 years did the Bird stand here at all?

Father says The war will end tomorrow. Tomorrow. I walk down the street of shattered concrete and broken glass. Smoke drifts through the air, and from it white doves scatter into the sky. The martyrs lie where they fell. Father says Martyrs go to heaven. Heaven.

A girl walks home through a siren light.A child crouched in fear behind a desk.A mother’s scream—too young, unheard.The earth coughs black smoke from her chest. Young hands ink ballots with trembling rage,Their futures written, burned, erased.Truth was a spark—they snuffed it out,Left it choking in the smoke it made. A woman’s voice too fierce to crown,So we dressed hate in suits again.The ballot box became a tomb,For reasons buried deep within. The Carolinas pulse, Ohio’s fa

the city first appears as cartilage, deep ruby scales tinted by children writhing on top of the ground, like twisted marionettes convulsing under a dimmed proscenium. its vertebrae glittering with patrol lights; flicker, flicker, phosphorescent pupils that blink whenever a chant rises above the pavement. avenues hinge like a colossal spine, curving around the onyx, serpentine chest of the plaza square. flesh is liquified into carmine pools, saturated and cold; severed limbs

The rain descends on scaffolds constructed of lies, For each droplet now stains what was written in shame. Beneath all the flood, the gilded city decays, Yet they swear that the drowning water is to blame. The floodlights are churning across fever and smoke,The blurred lenses distort what they can’t bear to call.The streets are now engulfed with the weight of their words,As the men on the screens pretend they know it all The flood funds are drifting through jeweled and gemmed

outside, Kabul exhales smoke and destruction.the city’s spine bent under its own grief,split down the center, wounds gushing bright as embers.the city was born from her body,her forehead pressed against the floor,charred silk sloshing her throat,her tongue searing through muted adhans. this is where the prayer rug was laid,your mother’s voice unraveling beneath a cracked ceiling,her syllables trembling,bending,gasping,like the flame of an exhausted candle,each scattering smal