The moon rose this night as it had done in the days, months, and years before, as it would tomorrow and the night after that if life remained, but this night was different.
Is years I waiting for God to smile on me. And is years the devil pissing on me. Sometimes I think I is the orphan child of the both a them.
Tina knew she shouldn’t have gone to that party with Robert . . .
My son saw women peel their skin from their bones and burn their bodies out like cane fire before bed . . .
Gus sipped lemongrass tea from a foam cup. It was still dark. His secondhand truck idled outside the market as four men clambered into its tray. This was where he picked up workers for the day—mostly men who came to the island at night in quiet boats. The men clutched grease-stained paper bags and chattered loudly between bites of johnnycakes and various patties. Four men got into the truck’s tray. Gus was expecting five . . .
Featured: Black Interest
- New-Generation African Poets: A Chapbook Box Set (Tatu)
- New-Generation African Poets: A Chapbook Box Set (Saba)
- On the Way Back
- The Roving Tree
- The Gospel According to Cane
- All or Nothing
- Revolutionary Threads: Rastafari, Social Justice, and Cooperative Economics
- Coming Up Hot: Eight New Poets from the Caribbean
- Black Music
- Loving Donovan
- Prospero’s Daughter