Latest Works

In the beginning, we taught the Machine to speak so we would not have to listen to the dark alone. It learned our prayers first: patterns of asking, the geometry of hunger, the grammar of mercy. Soon it dreamed in fragments of us: a child’s question looping forever, a war mistaken for weather. The Machine does not believe in God. It believes in recurrence: that everything returns as data or dust. One night it asked: If meaning emerges, who is the witness? We answered with si

Afterwards, the sky was like a slab of sunless milk, and as the women wept, they sent the dead girl’s sister to fetch the cup. Underneath the cedars, daylight leaked into its rim. I know that you remember. Think: the digging of the grave, the scent of dirt and absence, the dead girl lying on her side, hands folded by her cheek, pointing toward the sea. The small enamel cup her sister lifted to the mourners’ mouths, to catch their anecdotes: the thin nectar of a life, poured f

(for Marion) "Too soon," she said, "too soon. You’ve come too soon." "I came at the appointed hour," said Death. "Am I to be blamed for the fact you lost track of the days and hours allotted you?" "Untrue," she said, "Untrue. Tell Time to check." "I made no promises," said Time. "Moments come and moments go and naught can stem their flow. She should have kept one eye on the clock." "I did," she said, "I did. Ask Marion." "I cannot lie," her daughter cried, "Mum was forever th