the promise of a new year is in a bowl of ddukguk, for every strand of flesh reveals the body that wastes away, every bite of dduk the coins fade …
Category:
Poetry
after Carol Ann Duffy’s ‘Hour’ This evening, in the train station, I ascended, you descended— our eyes met, then I turned away. My husband was behind me, and you went …
“He who goes out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, bringing his sheaves with him.” – Psalms kuala lumpur | houston, 1981. they …
your blood goes picnicking at a grave brooms and burnt paper in hand 4/4/[2000 + 4×4] At Qīngmíng only the magnolia huā (花) bloomed munificent white against a grey curb. …
You would make me choose to press autumn hues between pages of The Invisible Man, or to jump in piles of reds and yellows but never to turn two leaves …
In Pakistan, grey smoke stacks curl up to sun. Skin browns on roadside as we throw makai into each other’s mouths. Eyes sting from rising flame, salt, chilli powder. Uniform …
A fallen giant of imperial industry, with a toe in every peasant’s backyard, lonely, despite the people living in it. Lost rocks of an empire litter the expanse of its …
on the train i see my grandfather | as a young man 10,247 km of water | seven seats away looking through his reflection | at darkened mountains and doubled …
In the end, the chair has lost its owner. The chair grinds out bad cells, the wind on the chair is caught in the throat as it takes …
the radio producers dilemma driving my derelict mazda home after a shift visors down to keep the electric sky from crashing my car its 1246 and i …