He set down my cup, showing me coffee trees,/ Corpus Christi costumes, the totora boats/ drying upward to the sky, the salt collectors/ in the Sacred Valley, sand.
“I’ll open a locker and there it’ll be—your head! ‘Thank God you found me!’ it’ll say. ‘I’ve been in here for days!’”
The members of my online poetry workshop gear up to discuss sexual assaults of yore
The feminine, breezing around, messy—/ we may be our edge, closer to home,