In this moment that has come to happen / in other moments, the notes / of birds nestled in my asking.

The new year begins in winter white embroidery— / trumpeter swans and needle-slim herons piercing / drainage ditches.

“It’s the year of getting better,” her mother said as she walked into the room. It was Thora’s second hospital stay of the year.

My mother and grandmother were born in ‘the land of the lake,’ or La Comarca de la Laguna, a cradle of fertile land between the Sierra Madre mountain ranges in the northern Mexican desert

As I look out upon a landscape now heavily shaped by American colonialism, I know another world is possible.

A farmer with a wolf, a goat and a cabbage must cross a river by boat.

The year I meet granpa my hands mimic clouds. / Charybdis turning turpid pools / beneath his globes— vision I have awaited.

I started asking rivers to feed me as a child—literally, with flesh from fish, then figuratively, with flashes of comfort.

There is a river, lost or hidden, that is impossible to pass six days each week.

The Opera House power vault / blows and knocks out the local grid / on our first day of work together.

I’m writing this much later than I should be, in part, because I’ve just had another birthday, and as I age, I become more reluctant to do more than one job.

The court had decided I was the most logical choice for the bull’s care. I was sufficiently neutral as a production assistant, and I’d already been tasked with managing him at the studio.

We don’t know. / Despite thousands of years spent / conceptualizing moralities of power, / theorizing hierarchies / or their abolition…

Can everyone hear and see me okay? No? Oh, I was on mute, let me just … There we go.

“Why is it that the more transsexual I get, the more employable I feel?”