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The strawberry is a large enough temple.
I clothe myself in doll-mirrors while the vehicles move
raindrops never touch each other.
A door floating towards shore
is where we’ll draw these maps.
My wife’s belly is resembling something
of us. Child like a strawberry
swallowed & my mouth is a candle.
When is the yard not spraypainted
anemones? You can tell by teasing them
open with your finger. My wife’s belly
is a clenched fist. If they are sleeping
you may never discover where you live.
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The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.
Protests in China are shining a light not only on the country’s draconian population management but restrictions on workers everywhere.
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