She instructs me in the language of fruit. Rambutan -soft-spined, red-laced – a grape in disguise, she says. But a grape is already a grape,

It’s early December.A vicious wind rattles walls and windows,with enough venom left over to desecrate every human bodyfool enough to be out in it. I’m on her

The sky is dying flame. Let’s whisper its virtues on the porch. No sob stories, no regret Not with what we have accomplished. The willful

It’s all been said before. Nothing starts with you or I. The words are not mine. They’re not yours. We just borrow them for the

Tell Me What is Wrong Talk to me, Gena. I’m here to bring comfort but first I must know what I’m comforting. I’m giving you