Wild

I read a poem at my father’s funeral. White Flowers, by Mary Oliver. I stand at the podium, dressed in a bright outfit, and think about his inappropriate children. There’s me, jet-lagged, coming from as far away as I can fly and still be in America, reading a poem about sticky blossoms, sugary vines and […]

Mimosa Pudica

We call it shy grass, he said, as I pointed to the dark, creeping foliage, the pert pink flowers looking like miniature firework displays. Then he bent down, looked up at me, and ran his forefinger gently along one of the veins. The double compound leaflets folded― like synchronized swimmers, like tiny hands in prayer, […]