The cricket bat he scored 300 runs with,
his bronze-medal rose from a local fair,
his favorite cap—all given
the barcodes of oblivion.

Skin Deep

on Fridays I don’t know if I’m more jealous of Loba’s curves
or the Gatsbyesque gluttony of Rampart’s silk skins that trigger memories
of every sari I abandoned to flee home with two suitcases Rampart
is everyone I’m scared you imagine after I leave

Two Poems

fairytale posing as apocalypse
what would a queer story be
without fungus-wearing flesh eaters,
bashing in the heads of civilians

Catherine (with a “C”)

catherine has never met a coward that she was too afraid to love / and when
she says “love,” she means lose / and when she says “lose,” she means
misplaced, open-mouth / chewed up penalties / places bets on boundaries /

& the everblossom withers

a father whose care
always depended on
how well you swung
a blade. a long-dead
mother. this country –
with all her craggy rocks
and poisoned waters –
she will never love you.