The smell of bergamot grease and hot iron always brings it back—the sticky, humid pulse
“…you build a life where you can shine in the world and still be eager,
I am seventy years old. Seventy. The number itself feels solid, a hard-back bounded volume,
When I’ve told the story about my cousin’s wedding on a plantation to other Black
I wiped your ass before you knew you had one. I didn’t say one mumbling
I met God at a strip mall conjunction of a liquor store-jazz club-Baptist church. Well,
“Have you eaten? “Do you have money?” “How are you getting home?” “Do you say
As a child, I used to wear pants on my head. I mean that quite
There are 25 passages in Paris. They’re easy to miss if you don’t know where
In my reading of The Seven Daughters of Dupree, there’s a prayer on page 79,
She won’t let go until I do. Like jazz. Reaffirming that I am beloved, she
I arranged a reading with a Santería priestess per my sister’s advice. Our ancestors had
Nine Black women writers from across the U.S., the Caribbean, Africa, and Europe share unforgettable
The sky is milky-eye gray over Paramount, Los Angeles. LA has been hurting since the
The smell of warm basmati rice bubbling on the stove brings me back to my
