by Emma Flood Mohammad Harris This man, who can climb his shaking sadness to the moon like a ladder, asks me where did you come from? The question is posed face-up, hands brushing the sheets. I do not ask it back because I know where he came from. The outskirts of the city a river bank away, the tall-walled house with a dirty kitchen and clean floors. He came from a cloud-filled bottle, a smoke-filled room, came from a heavy dream and a heavier heartbreak. He came from a love