Here’s a poem I like, recently published in Earth’s Daughters magazine. It’s the title poem of my currently-circulating manuscript.

Aleph, broken

slides from his
warm soup into bitter air,
breathes but does not cry,
the start
of a life without promises,
the dirty floor where language
will creep but no one hears it.
He is the first son.
Describe poverty.
Describe the ache to say.
Ellipsis, not the egg
but disconnection.

When he is old enough
to read, the letters crack
and fall apart, flakes of burnt paper.
He is a window with a missing pane.
Wind blows through on winter nights.
His father’s hat and beard
hunch over the kitchen table,
a shawl over his shoulders,
his hand trembling with chill
as he traces the lines of text.

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