by zamora | October 17, 2023
My father did not hug trees—he hit them, sometimes with his fists but mostly with his car when he’d back out after arguments, my mother still screaming. He would rev the engine, shred the mess under his tires. I rode with him once when he needed trees. He...
by zamora | October 17, 2023
You becamea fibrous,flayed streak of lightning in a glass case, shootingfrom its origin at the baseof the skull.Silently calling out, look,at what twitchesunder skin,tangled and throbbing.Look,we are allelectric. Listen to the author
by zamora | October 17, 2023
Gone my saint (Gun XIII) The good man’s dog only ate bread – the good man himself drank...
by zamora | October 17, 2023
(Morning in Utopia) What I would like to dois put my socks on first (starting with the right one)without thinking what bombs might fall today, to sit on the edge of the bed and pull my pants over my knees withoutknowing how the world burns. What I would like to...
