BLOWBALL

a poem by Roger B. Rueda they said the walls were sturdy—concrete poured from buckets of air, the engineers signed with pens that bled ...

a poem by Roger B. Rueda I write from the body— not the one the mirror insists upon, but the one that remembers dreams in the knees and argu...

a poem by Roger B. Rueda There are barren places in the world, and barren places in the mind— regions gone pale with forgetting, where t...

a poem by Roger B. Rueda When I build a fire, I do it the way I’ve done most things— quietly, purposefully, without asking anyone’s permi...

a poem by Roger B. Rueda Normal is such an impossible word, isn’t it? Like trying to hold water in a sieve and then blaming your own hand...

a poem by Roger B. Rueda All my work belongs to pleasure. Not joy. Not bliss. Not that weak helium. Pleasure, with its warped theology— ...

a poem by Roger B. Rueda The sea is the lips of the earth. It parts slightly at dawn, a whisper barely heard— something between hunger ...

a poem by Roger B. Rueda Is it insanity, this urge to touch her as her mother did— not in gesture alone but in soul, as if I could remember ...

a poem by Roger B. Rueda There it was—unbidden, between the stones where I plant what I know, what I name, what blooms when told. A weed, I ...

 a poem by Roger B. Rueda There are silences that make their own weather—humid, thick with the scent of memory undone. You were once th...

a poem by Roger B. Rueda You, the accident of genius, the wrong birth in the right family of merchants of pride— come home. Come home t...

a poem by Roger B. Rueda You, son of the sea, who now walks the tiled spine of towers in Dubai, whose hands once smelled of lake brine an...

fiction by Roger B. Rueda The sea is flat today. It doesn’t glisten or gesture, just lies there like something uncommitted. I sit at the s...