“He is a survivor, but he doesn’t write like one.”—Roberto Bolaño

I   II   III   gush of penumbra anchored in the calm   untouched beyond. soon to unearth —poem written on the page— the graveyard of words past the other side of spring…

Ruth loved flour. Mother loved the kitchen. And I loved Ruth and Mother. I grew up at the large kitchen table, watching Ruth sift flour and mix various kinds of dough. I learned to walk while holding…

I write on the weary folds of my face telling my disappointment to the increasingly dry river which circles around the ribs of our city. like a vein allowing the blood to flow lazily to the corners of…

each time i dig into the well i never reach the bottom. i pass endless broken fragments of age. my breath is too short to climb all the way down, and my gaze too blind to fathom the top. hundreds of prayers…

My name is Nagari. Thirty years of age. There is no need to explain; I understand. . . . That evening, after my bath, my hair still wet, I heard a pounding on the door of my rented room. Three men had…