Born to an Italian father and Spanish mother
Her heart and soul raised in the Swiss Alps
I never realised that as a woman, I would have so much to carry on my shoulders.
Hair messy, eyes wild with laughter
It is good we came here, to mix things up a bit.
She closed her eyes, warming them in the morning sun
A birthday party in Madrid
Photographic evidence of the Hungarian’s white shirted shoulder and his left ear
Neither meant to make an impression.
The Italian who left for surgery in Cairo,
would flee to Rome in the midst of the Arab Spring.
Hands shaken above large desks
Never to un-meet again.
the right timing
A bartender with impeccable English
Quiet with the city mourning a tragic fire accident
I am new to Baku.
Only the combined sound of Drake playing
And the gurgling of the apple-flavoured shisha pipe
Actually people think I am a terrorist.
Because I don’t come from Azerbaijan.
And that is how my people are often perceived.
They sat on windowsills and sprawled their belongings on a stoop.
The strong orange light on faces; mirror reflections on glass.
The politics of being raised not by one mother but two; one whose name was Jane.
A first love with the same name.
The Conspiracy Bar in Quezon City.
Shadows of the sun