Category: Poetry

I had this recurring dream as a child in which my mother was eaten by an alligator.

(Beyond, in the metro, women dance while commuters move past, tied to their greater causes, ants for crumbs, mad for blood, seeds to leaves.)

Medusa, do the snakes snap at your fingers when you run a comb through your tresses? Or do they unravel their bodies, straightening into an Eden of hoses that could power wash the stains out of the enemies you’ve turned to stone?

Plummeting to the floor, a switchblade might resemble an Olympic diver, who enters the water as seamlessly as a pocketknife cutting into a piece of satin. There is much to be said in favor of competition, the results of which could be as arbitrary as a Powerball number.

My Experiments with truth of a handful of hidden nuances sandwiched in the crevices of this colonial tomb in the corridors of our patriotic psyche...