to the airport in burbank
My grandmother’s neighbor came over crying and yelling about how she couldn’t find one of her budgies and she was afraid the worst had happened to it. She lived in the studio next door and I went in not knowing what to expect. I had been in an old lady’s home before, my grandma’s for instance, but I got the sense that once you hit a certain age (and grandma wasn’t there yet) you lose track of things. Things like order, and dustpans.
Continue reading “The Budgies of Broadway by K Dulai”
Uncanny Projections
I haven’t visited grandma much
but we dance in astral meadows.
Mom calls one day, I’m knee-deep
in books, says grandma is seeing
her father, hearing brackish hymns
in her bedroom where my grandpa
has not slept in months. I do not see
her that night, only lilacs glinting
in a burnt orange sunset. What?
she yells and I hear her from years
away. Mom calls one final time,
grandpa cannot handle her screams
for voices he cannot hear, and I sip
black tea and slumber, meet her
again in the meadows where lilacs
now burn and the sky now weeps
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 