New World Writing

Preparation

She dri­ves past the house a third time. She wants to be a nat­ur­al. The blinds are clos­ing. Maybe that’s enough for today.

Rumors

The rumor starts out with flamin­gos. The zoo is near­by, and since their clipped wings grow back, it’s com­mon­place for them to flee and get away with it.

But it turns out a macaw had slunk out of his cage and latched onto a Westfalia’s bumper, fresh­ly aslop –more

Of Interest is a recur­ring post link­ing to things of inter­est.

About the police at VOX

Breakfast, Lunch & Dinner

Niqab woman arriv­ing late for break­fast was one of the teach­ers of a small group of mid-teens. Four girls sat at an adja­cent table and a half dozen oth­ers sep­a­rat­ing them­selves down at low­er ground. A madrasa excur­sion per­haps, though these were not of the low­er class poor. Traditionally many poor fam­i­lies sent daugh­ters to a madrasa at least in part to relieve the bur­den at home. These were mid­dle-class –more

My Mother Mourns my Step-grand­moth­er

My step-grand­moth­er laid on the porch
An eagled spread below the sky
Her flail­ing. Body only a con­tain­er of the soul.
Her body only a con­tain­er of can­cer.
You have been old since I knew you.

I crum­bled in prayers, step-grand­moth­er,
I prayed in your tongue.
Let your grave know I want­ed to save you.

But step-grand­moth­er allows us this grief –more

It’s a long stretch speed­ing down the high­way from Atlanta to New Orleans, and most every­one dozes off. But the moon is just right, and for a moment, through the gums and elms and oaks and dog­woods of the road­side for­est tonight, a dwelling stands alone, its perime­ter out­lined with glow­ing col­ors. White lights and blue lights and red lights and yel­low. In the house lives a man who believes with –more

Reaction

We’d reached a turn­ing point. We didn’t want to tell our friend Cynthia what we thought of her choice of hus­bands, and we didn’t want to ask her what she saw in brawny reac­tionary types. What did her three choic­es of hus­bands have to do with us? It would have been more pleas­ant social­ly if we could have tol­er­at­ed any of her hus­bands’ com­pa­ny, and the way things had stood for many years was –more

I  lost my good mood at the store tonight. That was after I lost my job at the hair­dressers, where I hadn’t  lost my good mood because it was not unex­pect­ed that Sheryl, the girl with the pout, would replace me (she was faster and sassier). And that was also after I lost my boyfriend Danish to my best friend but that hadn’t affect­ed me either because I was hap­py for my best friend (who –more

An impor­tant piece of writ­ing on the repa­ra­tions issue. Worth read­ing.

Friends receive this shar­ing of my sto­ry with the love that is intend­ed. My sto­ry: A south­ern Black wom­an’s narrative/autobiographical song

1.

Nancy and I dri­ve the New Jersey Turnpike on our way to New York. I am com­pelled to New York by Audre Lorde’s death, June Jordan’s sick­ness and Adrian Felton’s dying. I am adult tired and need to be replen­ished by the joys, mem­o­ries and warmth of my –more

Middle

We’re sup­posed to be
tak­ing a break.
Again.
But we meet for din­ner
and I take you back
to my sub­let
push you down on the couch.
We’re sur­round­ed by pho­tos
of peo­ple I don’t know.
Their smiles fake.
Forced.
We kiss
slow­ly, deeply.
You slip my dress off so quick­ly
I don’t real­ize I am naked.
Your –more

A white sand heron fell onto our prop­er­ty. I thought it was a stray garbage bag caught in the brush until my hus­band said oth­er­wise. It was beau­ty in death. Almost appeared still fly­ing. With long yel­low beak and green half-closed eye it appeared to have flown off an ancient Egyptian tomb.

There was no sign of a wound. Not a scab, a tear or a drop of red blood. Just a downed bird on the wing of the –more

I keep check­ing Facebook, to see if she has read my emails, react­ed to my paint­ings, shown that sweet­ness that comes so rarely, but when it does, it’s like the jew­el of her smirk and lips and yet there are no words.

I need to block her. Let the addic­tion end. The hero­in or meth vibe has me recur­rent­ly going on the com­put­er and the Facebook den of iniq­ui­ty to see if she has breathed, even writ­ten –more

The weath­er on the Carolina coast had been strange; a result of trop­i­cal depres­sion rem­nants. The sky cleared on a Thursday and the beach­es filled. I stubbed out a Spirit and popped the top on a new beer. Down the beach, a tod­dler walked toward the ocean hold­ing a beach ball over his head with both hands. A wave knocked him over and sent the beach ball sail­ing for­ward. The wind took it out to –more

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