“I’m sorry.” It was a simple statement, filled with honesty and sadness, but truth was evident in the man’s voice . . .
The rain stops now and I shake my head to fling the last drop off my big straw hat. It have a freezing trickle of water running down my arm, a silver ball escaping down to the tip of my finger. Forest rain does be like that: cold in the humidity, shining like hell when the light touch it . . .
At night you lie awake, kept up by the sounds of running feet and children’s eerie laughter . . .
Featured: Black Interest
- John Crow’s Devil
- Lost Canyon
- Hadriana in All My Dreams
- The Spring Thrills Digit
- Becoming Abigail
- Coming Up Hot: Eight New Poets from the Caribbean
- Black History Digit
- Eight New-Generation African Poets: A Chapbook Box Set
- Haiti Noir
- So Much Things to Say: 100 Poets from the First Ten Years of the Calabash International Literary Festival