Even before I speakthe gods are hawking answers,vying for a slot above my head.
Yet even when my disorder was at its worst, there were pleasures I can still recall. I considered it “okay” to eat when I was genuinely hungry. I don’t know if this was permission I’d received from Fat Is a Feminist Issue, a book I turned...
In Jim Crow Mississippi, speaking out cost a black waiter his job. Now he is immortalized in poetry and song.
When my daughter drizzles gold on her breakfast toast, I remind her
she’s seen the bee men in our tree, casting smoke like a spell until
the swarm thrums itself to sleep.
I’m asked questions about travel—What countries I’ve visited, how long I stayed.
They press my fingers to a pad then frownand shake their heads and press again.
