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With the right sponge and brush, you could / paint these walls to look like marble. In the two-story / foyer, the previous owner left a giant painting / of southwestern pots.

that color is not color. The red flower, / she tells me, absorbs all light / but red, so reflects red / where she and I can see it.

By the time we finalized the layout for Ara Oshagan’s photo essay about the Armenian diaspora in Lebanon, his decade-long project comprising memoir and documentary, Russia’s invasion of Ukraine was underway, with horrific consequences.

Slow down. Put away the cream and sugar. Savor this drink by itself. So I begin my sensory coffee-brewing class.

There’s no such thing as bushfire season anymore. It’s all year round, and even now in winter there is a total fire ban in place.

You can’t control what people make of you. / Some see sacrifice / where others see torture

Some mornings, I come to on the floor, / my neck burned with moon tracks

One day, I drove the hundred miles east to visit T at Ironwood and was denied visitation. The clerk told me there was no record of my request. Never mind that I had been visiting my son there every Saturday for five years.

Like an ermine looping through the snow, mouth a pink line, / I’m suited for my habitat.