On reading “7-Year-Old Girl Starves in U.S. Border Patrol Custody”

On reading “7-Year-Old Girl Starves in U.S. Border Patrol Custody”
Photograph by Stan Shebs (2005), cropped from original. CC BY-SA 3.0.

I heap my family’s plates as if

that would feed her. But who

can chew? Even two thousand

miles away, anyone can

smell the whitethorn acacia,

yellow sweetclover, desert

ghost flowers still blooming

in the dead of night. How

am I to keep scrubbing

plates soiled with hunger

as if they could be cleaned,

& those flowers—

must their faint scent fill me

with such appetite?  

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His Sculpture

His Sculpture

O to just wash it clean, white as the shelf it sits on, that thing he’d put up on a pedestal—a misshapen bicycle seat, swollen coffee bean.
Summer, 2016

Summer, 2016

Parkinson’s a bitch, my father said, shaking off the awkwardness of having his son hold him in bed to hold off the shaking.


So we go out, our descent reconnaissance for the collective. We perform experiments with swirled words, crescent-moon eyes, and report.


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