No, you prefer writing about the bloodstained past. “The butchery of the innocent never stops,” as one poem begins, although your work also offers consoling images of domesticity — your mom in “her red bathrobe,” your grandmother ironing, a lover who “stirs the shrimp on the stove.”
[Answer?]
It’s a kind of feast-in-time-of-plague poetry. I always feel like if I am sitting here having a terrific meal with friends, yes, there is someplace else, not too far away, where something awful is happening.
Find the rest here, if you're lucky:
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/02/03/magazine/03wwln-q4-t.html?_r=1&ref=books&oref=slogin
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