Poetry

Once, I was a daughter of this place:
daughter of Gwen, granddaughter
of Leretta, great of Eugenia McGee.

I thought that when I saw my brother
walking through the gates of the prison,
he would look like a man entering his life. 

Did you know? You have the right to receive food stamps within a few days if you are eligible and have little or no money. Do any of these apply to you?

She’s always been a tomboy, Mama Vic says, Mouthy.
Runnin’ the roads. Not comin’ home, and as she speaks

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.

[…]

They say leap-year babies
are out-of-time, moony. I’m really
just two, closer to the womb

The notion that the carriage wheels clattering through Paris
remind him of the drums from the islands in his father’s tales:
clickclack sputterwhir—he could make a song of it, dance

All men are beggars, white or black;
some worship gold, some peddle brass.
My only house is on my back.