Author: Karen Kevorkian

  Not having the book not remembering what it said stunned awake into sheets’ tissuewrapped old dress dank from years’ saving dusty gritty cement floor little windowless room who knew what children could get up to crack of sunlight outside stairs leading down to it push open the door whatever took place still lingering don’t…

Small motors for taming grass moan, the day not so hot, in the Times the columns of the dead are short ones dried fronds droop at the tops of palms, brown petticoats to fall on walkers as Santa Anas send husks flying the dream with a bride upended, long white veil trailing a dance performance…