The black man who approached from the rear of the gathering at my father's burial looked to be one hundred years old. He was frail, but not bent. He walked haltingly, supported by two black ... [+]
In our dreams, we've started
seeing the phantoms planted
beneath our floorboards—
and we fear that there is no door that is always open for us.
It took too long to realize
the tenderness of ice cubes
in our tomato soup
and that each sound is a sentence.
And when we wake up, the house is full of smoke
from fires burning somewhere else, but
all we can do is close the windows
and take out the trash.