PoetryWhat is the voice of one who has died if no one listened to what remained unspoken? It no longer matters.

Poetryi. Evening falls, and rooms grow dark, then light. Through the open window, a cricket starts up its whirring. Steam rises from the kettle. The tea grows stronger – no words today: a tightness around the throat. A weight like a thrown stone. Sprigged flowers. What...

Poetrymy ancestors peer towards dry land from the deck of a ship; or are they like swine, packed into the hold to see the sun only when they arrive for the slaughter –   how do you tell those who have survived that it...