Along the walk to the InstituteThe Indian cork tree begins its silent shift.White, five-pointed stars rest on the pavement,not fallen, but arranged,as if the...
We were all once
born of the earth—
keeper of her breath,
kin to root and river,
to feather and fur,
to the anito, the diwata,
and the taw’t talun,
spirits...
Sunday blessed peace from nothing—
and nothing was a woman reduced
to a child's love running after drunken anger
letting go of nothing,
again nothing—
nothing was napping in...
In every harbor, salt clings to skin,
and mothers’ songs drift into dawn,
soft as mango fuzz,
warm as a sun-stroked shoulder.
Markets breathe with spice and voices,
stretching...
