Faces fixed in separate
boxes, lips stiff,
eyes flat with fatigue,
I am so often smiling.
A lot of black people live [here]
And they – got big houses
And the houses all look kind of
the same
The minute the bullet pierced his face
the sky so moon-flooded collapsed into a rhapsody
and the city swales swelled with lilac wildflowers—
it was a winter of untameable fire
and bitter nostalgia, brother. . .
As of this hour, the sun has been up some time and is bright as August begins
and an invisible hand moves among leaves, tickles them in their deeply green
luster. I’m thinking of you, the look in your eyes—weary. I want to fill this house . . .
A literary and art journal
from the MFA community at
Antioch University Los Angeles.
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