Hamamatsu: home of unagi pie –– a biscuit made of eel.
Iwakuni: bridge of Samurai –– beer with strangers under blossom.
essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
Hamamatsu: home of unagi pie –– a biscuit made of eel.
Iwakuni: bridge of Samurai –– beer with strangers under blossom.
In the Turkish supermarket, you search through baby peaches and it makes me feel closer to you.
Slathered in a vernix coat,
you slithered out to my relief
with ten toes and two perfect hands
bunched into tiny fists.
Mama hugs
her son. Can we get
horchata? No. Not today.
It’s Tuesday. Treinta tacos?
De asada? Para llevar.
The wait’s worth it.
Carnivorous Butterwort A pale-purple tint – a sort of violet of little petals attracting flies, ants in fresh beeches shading the zigzag trail with glossy moss. The floral colour implies saintly piety to God or deities at which an insect could quail in the East. Ecru moths cruise and scurry. Near Acheron just a halt….
writing a love letter to the ocean is as singing an aria to a hurricane:
there is nothing in language for this.
I wonder what will happen
if I make it
to twenty-five.
It is June and the foxgloves are in bloom.
In two days it shall be my birthday.
Make the water rearrange its insides,
shift shape as it is told,
steam rise
drip drip vinegar,
sour the water to not let things stick.
The pots and pans of childhood stir me.
We made the heads of Styrofoam
so not to be too heavy on their frail necks.
Hearts? Simply-fashioned, from lumps of stone.
Finding them dead on returning from vacation,
she flushed her six African Cichlids.