No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. Celebrating Diversity Since 2015
From my back porch I have a panoramic view of east Berkeley and the San Francisco Bay, with the city skyline sparkling across the water. On clear nights the downtown lights twinkle high against the sky, doubled by their reflection in the smooth, dark bay. Below them, the lights of Berkeley are dimmer.
I've become a convenient woman. I hold my tongue — swollen like a dead fish — motionless behind pressed lips.
My father didn’t have the skills to navigate or blend one family into another, especially when the two wives had contempt for each other.
He landed in the slush pile for sale with her and the glad
bags, the stars & the moon—Do I tell, do I tell, do I tell?— They’ll tell you
A man is on all fours feeling his way gingerly on the ground.
I think we are not meant to capture this brief visit from an ancient God of song and war.