It’s not indispensable, poet, that you write it.
Your elegy.
You won’t help her die by doing so.
You won’t bury her more.
If anything you’ll unearth her. A foot
among clods of humus in the Wax Museum.
—from "...
"I secure my head scarf and get out of the car. My driver, Latif, is with me; women don’t drive here. Months ago, when Latif met me at the airport, I told him I came to Kabul to teach English. His eyes brightened and his eyebrows lifted, 'Ah, my granddaughter wants to be a teacher,' he said."
—from "Orphanage in Kabul," Winter 2017 (Volume 58, Issue 4)
"My brother Terrence came by to see me the night I came home. He asked me about Grandma’s funeral, about the food and the weather, about who would take over her house and her dogs, if I found any pictures of us as children there, if I would ever go back." —from "Songs for Another Man's Kids," Winter 2017
(Vol. 59, Issue 4)
Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.
I always remember writing, as far back as I can remember, always trying to write poems and plays and songs. I remember my parents bought me this little Yamaha keyboard when I was maybe six or seven, and I...