(2024) Whenever the sky unfolds into a new day, my tongue resurrects.  Baba’s brass bell becomes the voice of God, a prelude to prayer.  I

(2024) My mother walked into my dreams twice last week. She’s 26, pregnant with my brother, and wearing  a blue, flower-print kitenge  that swallows her

(2024) Cancer cells swelled in her stomach, soldiers treading their way to her chest, a steady march to her limbs until the chemotherapy withdrew from

(2024) In the garden, the first light of dawn touches  the hem of a hibiscus like a moon piercing  through the night. The leaves, swollen

(2024) Upon the quicksand of logic, I build my doubts. Years gnawed thin by fear swirl southwards of my dreams like a whirlpool. When night

(2024) At dusk, the sky weeps over our roof and the aluminum sheet won’t stop singing its sympathy. If you ever read about loss, you

(2024) The more things die, the more I question the stability of what remains. In my head, the memory of a field of wheatgrass in

after Ngwatilo Mawiyoo’s ‘After a Time in America’ (2024) The Nashville farmer’s market whispers to your mind  that this is not  home. It rips the