No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
I felt a sudden sense of shame. Along with the many things I had bid goodbye to over the years, had I also lost my identity? I tried to shake off the feeling and convinced myself that I needed some more time. I glanced at my grandfather. Thankfully, he was oblivious to the internal dialogue I was having with myself.
Wilde, who shines on every page he inhabits, wasn’t as modern as he thought he was. Foppish writer Count Robert de Montesquiou-Fezensac wasn’t as talented as he thought he was. More people now read Wilde in a day than have read Montesquiou in a century.
And when the moon and four planets lined up last night
Saturn was plunged into Pensacola Beach.
We could not see it, so plunged was it,
way below the Gulf.
I am I-821 and I-765, or a half-hour morning drive to paper the walls of the cramped space of a Salvadoran consulate,
My mother was still teaching me how to spell my name after kindergarten. I was learning Spanish all over in a country that spoke English, which I also had to learn.
Let it fly, quiet wings, whose wisdom advises you leave those insignificant battles behind, walk graveyards to understand the bones.