Canvas boots, pig-iron tacks.
At midnight, the wooden platform groans like a hull.

While children kneel at your cage in awe
edge offerings of cashew nuts, chopped fruit,
curse words into your magnificent beak,
mums settle carrier bags at tired wet feet

      My Name is My Name Ami never let anyone call my sister Sam – it always had to be Samina. She said she’d rather be waterboarded than let her daughter be whitewashed by whites too conservative to spare the extra syllables. Ami never let anyone call...

The coastline’s smile is sharp with blackened teeth,
seabird shelters, scarps, cutaways, broken reefs:
the bloody mouth of a boxer who can’t be dropped,
punch drunk with the brain’s purple pounding . . .

Terrestrial locomotion
across concrete,
the inverted pendulum,
moving flesh and boot –

The passenger train along the Connecticut shoreline moves as if in a
river of wooden ties and steel rails. . .

There are blackbirds singing beautifully at dawn,
Mozart and Shakespeare existed and that’s fine . . .

Tonight, my houseplant child asks about sunlight,
brushes my arm as she stutters on the word,
photosynthesis . . .

When she asked what I wanted
to be when I grew up, my mother
laughed when I said ‘free’