poems speak like otters
on their backs cracking clams
always opening

After the flood, the salmon cut
the Wilson River, high and colored up.

Seeds are no bigger than they were
When our grandfathers planted them.
Our farms are so much larger,
But there is not more land.

Emiliano was deported
last month.
Today he has returned
and is loading plastic tubs
of cover crops
into a dented white van.

Out of body
 I was there Watching it happen Like the man on the TV I saw him shoot himself Every time I saw myself crash The smell of blown airbags Pieces of glass in my teeth I Cut teeth Still finding them in my shoes On these tender feet Weeks later Like my first […]