Cloth & Sun
Chaos greets me at the door—
broken things swirl,
dust motes through worn curtains,
a breath before the next bruise.
You coil like an old cobra,
fangs flashing rearview
on that backseat ride home.
I stare...
These poems are part of a special section of the Mid-Atlantic Review, Celebrating Black History, and selected by editors Khadijah Ali-Coleman, Carolivia Herron, and...
Diaspora CaféMy heart bass and his strength drum goboom, boom, boomnot 808s, but soul stringshand heals and open palmsorigin thumpin’ coursing gospel through the...
Only whiskey burns the sorrow as she grieves.
Purple velvet once surrounded golden dreams.
Both a season and a reason left on leave.
Now a memory left...
Artists and physicists may argue whether or not black is a color, a shade or even the absolute absence of color itself. But the iconic artist Mark Rothko doesn’t see black as any of these single, narrow definitions.
This poem is published as part of the Amplifying Disabled Voices special section, selected by editors Christopher Heuer, Marlena Chertock, and Gregory Luce.
A Disabled...
Cape Cod
Peace rumbles in the distance like thunder
then flashes in your window like lightening
to hang heavy in the air like the damp
so the boards...
Sorting Through Mail at a Senior Home
I make small piles on my desk
To separate the residents
Who have passed and those still waiting
For letters that...
