I drive in the downpour,
the road conjugated
into uproar, by hearts
I do not know.
Did you have Halloween in China? the son asked, stationed at the living room table, categorizing (& gobbling up) his loot. No, the mother replied, explaining how no one in China would just hand out candy for nothing.from my poem Halloween in the new Fall issue of Mobius: The Journal of Social Change. Thanks to the editors of Mobius for publishing my work, alongside urgent work by Cortney Lamar Charleston, Chelsea Coreen, Matt Dennison (who also wrote about Halloween), & others. Check out the whole issue for poetry + fiction about border crossings, homelessness, race, gentrification, drone warfare, labor. Special thanks to Becca Glaser, Lauren Ferebee, Sam Herschel, & Eric Berlin for their insightful comments & suggestions on various iterations of this piece.
It’s not about the words. It’s about the memories lost inside the words.Virginia Woolf, from Congenial Spirits: The Selected Letters of Virginia Woolf (Harcourt, 1990)
The moon’s a dead rock, but I still like the word,
so black in its white space.
what can we say to the
moon except You again?
You again.Franz Wright, from “Morning Moon,” in Kindertotenwald: Prose Poems (Alfred A. Knof, 2013)