“This must be the taste of Language—the tongue mapped by many colors,parsed by the vowels of memory, the roofof the mouth the dome of a worldcircumscribed by consonants, whose edgessuggest the sour-sweetness of oranges,the bittermelon’s green rind, the river-scent of mangoes all the way to the grove.”

“There is a season to this ripening,the way sap of tree rises to fulfillfruit of the topmost branch,or the motion of jasmineclimbing trellises to show offa single blossom to a new moon tide....Yes, there isreason for this ripening.You are goldened by my tongue.”

“We have joined the trekof desert women, humped overfrom carrying our own oasesin the claypots of our lives,gathering broken shards we findin memory of those who wentahead of us, alone.”

“She had known ever since she feltthe miracle of his heart quickening in her,it would end the way it began: her armsgathering his hurt body again and againinto her indigo mantle, the shield of her lovebringing the world to complete silence.”

“This paper is a crane.When its wings unfold,The paper will be pure and empty.”

“The dancer...knows it takesTen sacred years to learn one gestureOf the wind’s caress on the skin of water.Tonight, in the shadows of our dance,I tell my soul to grow quiet,Become lake, reflect unbroken moon.On the deepest part of the lake,A solitary fisher paddles his oars.At the shore, a woman in red sarongSings: their longing walks on water.”

“She turns to the man beside her,As if to say she understood how insideAnd outside the rooms of loveThe landscape was not always seamless”