"We do not show you the numbers; instead, we fill your bookshelves with famous and should-be-famous women. Look, look,look—we say did you know—and we did not know."
Read MoreThe poet, essayist and music critic has a style of storytelling that is unique across genre and form. He shares his artistic journey from early criticism to a fruitful melding of his music roots and writing, with his hometown as a steady backbeat.
Read More"Depending on how you define burial, the ending is unspectacular."
Read MoreThe Nashville-born writer crafts stories rooted in the heartland, weaving together real and imagined experiences, and smashing the personal and the political together, in order to care for herself and other black women.
Read More"I switch seats. But it does not matter. I feel it all: the eyeballs / of this town scorch the back of my neck, skin already darker there."
Read More"When it comes back, our love bites your shoulder, becomes the moonlight, thankful the war has ended & we still have both our hands."
Read MoreA professor of many years, C. D. Albin is a native of West Plains, Missouri, and the recipient of the 2017 Missouri Author Award in Fiction.
Read MoreCrow murmurs thesepaintings to me andi whisper them to you
Read MoreEntrepreneur and wordsmith Chaun Webster grew up in North Minneapolis and still lives within one mile from his childhood home.
Read More“It’s not that poetry is dead. It’s that a kind of poetry is dead."
Read More"On an ancient doorway’s thresholdI pause, not contained or released ... "
Read More"Say you know me, and say it again."
Read More"You should never trust a poem that ends with aquestion ..."
Read MoreYou don’t say. Then there’s a man takinganother man inside himself ...
Read MoreWatch to be sated. The brain nestsa splintered thought that seedsits own creation ...
Read MoreI have inherited these feetfrom the trust fund of feara garage full of rusting knickknacksstored in a body shop of intent ...
Read MoreWhen Genevieve was only six her fatherdied one evening. An electric storm cloudswallowed her lunchbox ...
Read More"My mother is indigenous to nowhere. My lips curl in bloodat the rising of the father. Black is not a primary color."
Read More"The man—the salesman—at the mattress store was beautiful. And very loved. But he loved only mattresses, their beautiful contusions, their floral sighs as bodies broke them in on winter nights ..."
Read MoreThe Washington Post says that green burials areon the rise, as baby boomers plan for their future ...
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