A Question of Molecules
Bread: an offering
Coyote
Housebreak
Letter in the Shape of a Banyan Tree
Mosaic
My Father in the Front Door
Praise the wind in your face, the hill rising before you
Staring Down the Barrel
Thanatosis
The Real Thing
The Wave Rule
True Lies
Unsatisfied
You have stopped going
True Lies
Lisa Suhair Majaj
My childhood was uneventful,
and happy. My father raised wild goats
in a small mountain village adrift
with the odor of thyme. My mother
baked bread on stones, wove blankets
of goat hair, coaxed jam out of cactus fruit.
Each morning I rose before dawn
for the day’s trek to water, balancing a jug
on my head down the long steep path.
In the winter we roasted chestnuts
at the family hearth, told tall tales
to entertain each other through the long
dark nights. This was one of them.