1. the interview


The American demanded much
of me, wanting brushstroke
people, sweeping spices, swift


illusions; wanting
scattered rice
India for his collection.


With the hole of heartache
in my throat I turn the conversation
back to birthday parties.


How can I catch memories
that stretch in cats’ tail smoke
curls towards the ceiling?

How can I speak

of the way
you sing
like mustard seeds
spilling on the counter?




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