From the back of the bus we watch the boys Ripping off shirts, muscles ripple like sand - Your lips to my ear; girls make little noise
By Rachel M.J5 years ago in Poets
The Sun in Calcutta blisters with April rage as women hang their saris on clotheslines hand-washing them with crumbling detergent
By mokradi_ 5 years ago in Poets
We ate the watermelon on the porch, on splintered steps that threatened our bare feet, when we had finished lunch - the sun, a scorch
By Dane BH5 years ago in Poets
