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Crossing Bordersexpand_moreIt suddenly seemed to her that the world was filled with little miracles. There were moments when love overcame her despair.
I make peas and argue with a wall. Something gets stuck like that.
I promised to return, but secretly I dreamed of staying in America.
Some days are stretched so taut it feels like changing might break us. We feed the baby bitter melon, flower pepper, bloodroot beet. The first snow comes in January, fresh gauze over an old wound.
The graffiti suggests the most essential story of New Haven.
i stored away in my mama’s empty perfume bottles smells and stories
I’ll leave a trail of crumbs as I descend into god knows where.
I’d make a tub of mud to keep live crabs. I’d refill it daily.
The women wanted signs of regret, but she was straight shouldered.
You come hot, marching between one blazing Arab & one crazy Jew.
Two animals, doe-eyed, slick across the road into the femur of the night.
It is a city of sea, sun, boulevards, strolling beauties, life-altering food.
Logic is such an elegant weapon; and religion, such an easy target.
The hymn that’s resurrected from the hymnal aspires to the spiritual.
“I always arrive late at the office, but I make up for it by leaving early.”
My dear, even my ear is trying to eat itself in its attempt to forget you.
Enjoy the prison. It’s very impressive, worth spending some time!
There is a lot about others I don’t remember, outliving an interest.
The hut was cluttered with the skulls and bones of small animals.
Sometimes one does wade into it or is ambushed as by a incensed fog.
It was enough to make the most hardened veteran drop his guard.
On a jet stream, unearthly, air can travel at hundreds of miles per hour.
Loss. That word echoed in my ears as my eyes ranged around the garden.
The Bengalis negotiate their space with corrupt politicians and landsharks.
After the password was given, the question remained. My name.
The fog’s sheen is a mirror: my mother sees the terrain of the future—
“She showed me her tits,” said Jimmy. “Bullshit!” said Frank.
Photo portraits, landscapes, and world scenes by Sandra Lloyd.
