They would not believe it, the Zapotec girls.
The English potter drove them to the Gulf of Tehuatepec
to show them the sea. They would not believe it was water.
On our sweaty walk, we passed under archways of feathering clotheslines with the belief we were following the faded footsteps of scribes and philosopher-kings
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Or maybe it’s not true, maybe Jost is in all of us, me, a person like him, stalwart, inflexible, easily destroyed by the modern world;
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I’ll bet Dad
is deeply conflicted about Paradise, if it is flush
with repentant Nazis, and God loves every one of them.
She contemplated the only boy I ever actually wept
and ever prayed for: a bitter hawk-nosed Southern prayer
for [ ] was so plentiful and so ‘weekend-only.’
Why can’t the word hartal
Be translated into English?
The western media call
It a ‘general strike’:
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Making friends isn’t easy.
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