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There’s this game we used to play. I don’t think we ever came up with a name for it. In the aboveground pool, we became synchronized swimmers, twirling in tight circles, eyes to the blinding sky,

What separates us from our lives / is a see-through thing. / Jellyfish membrane, fragrant flower sealed / in wax, its smell kept secret.

The sound is a woman standing in the pleats / of the mountain’s summer skirts, her throat / haunted by sister-elders calling back / a hundred seasons, a hundred more.

Echo who always answered among rocks, spilled / In cairns, in ice caves. I did not / Leave you. Even now I can't keep from

My body hair / Like barbed wire / Prickly tumbleweed / Thorns in soft cotton / A high desert grave / This land is mine / This dust / These bones /

Endings always start the same way—stellar / nurseries clouded with beginnings / in the form of hydrogen, newborn specks / of bright, birthed in the recesses of nowhere. / They stumble and

These rainbow worlds of swirling nebulae / arrest you as you thumb / past smug celebrities, vacation shots / and selfies hoping to inflame an ex. / Golden discs of galaxies are

She heats up a bowl of rice drizzled with pork fat. She adds a splash of soy sauce to the steaming heap and squats down on a foot stool in the kitchen to

I find her asleep in bed, still dreaming her dream that summoned me here. I switch on the small glowing halo of her make-up mirror, study my face awhile before climbing onto

Our compasses fail us again and again, leading us along the wrong magnetic fields, yet we sail still through quiet seas under the false mathematics of north.  What the frontier means. Not conquering. Not masculinity, not like