Writings. Often within the intersection between fiction and non-fiction.
I thought we were two through summer, though fall I felt your sting. I tried revival all winter, but I couldn’t survive a thing, and just when I thought blossoms arrived, the skies cried this spring.
I don’t live in the East I don’t live in the West I live in my head And it suits me best
Tired old black lady Walking down the street Moving kind of slow On her tired old, long- Suffering black feet. Tired old black lady Five children mother Black purse in one hand Tiny wife handkerchief In her other. … Read More ›