top of page
  • Writer's pictureBenjamine Mo


Updated: Mar 3, 2021

By Benjamine Mo

In this sermon, everything is but its ending. And this ends with me as it did with you just weeks ago, when I saw you off on the service road and sun-hatted aunties picked highway onion grass, unflinching. All of this is to confess that what I’ve inherited from you is words to place but nowhere to put them, that the ending is unbirthed, picked too soon; that I’m re-ending things without exhaling, an unnatural state. Languages of punctuation that we never got right. But I’m speaking now to the cooling streets and fog of masked faces, to the bending of already curled onion grass, and I’m speaking a eulogy that I resuscitate and live: that you, precious, were here, that some part of this ended just weeks ago as stalks were bent and basketed, and I cried with Mama over a photo of you descaling fish. The mass-masking isn’t quite over yet, but I bare this face that shares with you its eyebrows, telling on myself, telling myself, in words: though everything is but its ending, the stalk will regrow; this sermon is unceasing


Recent Posts

See All

Going Home

By Madison Hu when the light turns red, he will go home in the meantime, three friends walk arm to arm the baby is on his father’s shoulders and it is nothing he can’t defeat yet later, he will only r

Selected Poems

By Thaleia Dasberg “simmer” over milkwashed fields plucking feathers off corn stalks bleeding I watch you steam you smoked thing boots freezing under a stomach hot with buried spring “sarasota (next t


bottom of page