She’s always been a tomboy, Mama Vic says, Mouthy.Runnin’ the roads. Not comin’ home, and as she speaks
You are the country at war and the city ablaze.You are the flags lining Fourth Street and the singer
Once, I was a daughter of this place:daughter of Gwen, granddaughterof Leretta, great of Eugenia McGee.
I thought that when I saw my brotherwalking through the gates of the prison,he would look like a man entering his life.
Announcing a new poetry project in the spirit of the Federal Writers’ Project.
Garlands of trinitarias shade an artist’s studio, plainer than their synagogue halfway down the hill, its ceiling painted with stars, a glass chandelier.
[…]
Summer ended powerfully—as if Godhad snapped a branch from his mightiest oakand thundered: “Enough.” The sky dimmed.
In search of pasture, a place to lie down in.Back to the mother breastor a dream of return