Grief
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Some cities fall with a roar. Others fade quietly, their fog learning to swallow what people no longer see. This poem is a warning about…
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My mother once told me that my eyes were like open windows. I used to have a window in my bedroom. Sometimes I’d open it…
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A reflection on a country I once called home. “Chávez said he would put an end to poverty. What he’s really doing is putting an…
Poems From The Kitchen Table 