...A poem for Sunday

...when we left our houses that april it was for history’s pleasure—...

...he saw my mother in the scar-city— brown hair and yellow dusted-down dress...

...here is the harbor where it all began, here is the sand, the gnarled and towering sepulchre of salt ...

I learned how to carry myself to protect my safety back home, only to come to the U.S. and face a different danger...

the road-lilies waited for us to pass and begone their leaves stiff hostages to the shifting clouds of dust...

i asked this of shame / be a stranger a halved face anyway a ruin like a bloody mouth unworthy ...

In the classic gay narrative, the closet is the only common denominator among members of the LGBTQI community...

"A war once fought never comes to an end,” my mother said. "The wounds crust over, but rarely ever heal."