[tabby title="Poem"] My mother does not know that my pillows smell of the pads of dogs’ paws, and my soul of burning Cherrywood My mother does not know that my routine echoes the pop of a fresh can of tennis...

[tabby title="Poem"] My hands felt your receding hairline your Halloween silhouette your soul that has already melted A gush of air poses as hips, double padding for your lofts; you were disappearing but my fist smelled your shadow fighting. I...