by Andrei Guruianu

Legal for one more year, my father’s voice
like an excited child on the phone
tells me his papers have come,
the papers, the papers,
all I ever heard growing up
with the weight of expectations,
playing the good immigrant son,
learning to anticipate
those envelopes from the government
more...

by Andrei Guruianu

This morning’s letter read over tea and toast with jam
was fat with bank transaction pages, but nothing new.

Soon the belt would have to inch just one notch closer,
a coiled snake at rest, until one end meets opposite end

leaving little room for music, for parties, cheap bottles
of cabernet draining deep red to...