Apocalyptic Love Song Longing lengthens. The heart muscles over. What in the world is not a force of its own reckoning. We worship the sheen on the surface of the same lake that let our girls drown. How easily we trade our own breath for
I had so many of these little notes that I would sometimes scroll down the screen just to see them riffle up, a blur of words that sang of possibility. They belonged to the future, and I carried them, clustered, in my pocket.
For the past two weeks, I’ve been immersed in the commemorative supplements of a Malaysian newspaper celebrating its fortieth anniversary this month.