I point my camera towards B. Lovely and she is sitting on the curb.
love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt
I myself should never have been born
You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.
I run with a pack of older boys from our neighborhood, the only girl.
Taking photographs of my hometown has given me a chance to reflect on people whom I have not valued.
I’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.
Lights on the dashboard spell out
“You still can’t kiss me”
I’msorry I‘ll see what happens iLife
The hamantaschen have followed us from apartment to apartment, all of the kitchens dark, cramped, cluttered.
I am not a guide
for every traveler
Through the dusty window in my parent’s bedroom, I watched the neighbor’s cattle graze.
The sin is existing.
If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house
If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray
Shadows and psychological metaphors are favored photographic subjects for me.
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
She turns her back for me to fasten the rows of metal hooks. Why isn’t our small, tender freedom enough?
Jenna says that he typically goes for redheads, so I run to Target and buy a box of hair dye.