When the house of flesh disappears in an earthquake of its own making, this house of wood and glass will stay fixed in its
Two Redtails on an updraft hawk the field, their flight a dance of widening and approaching circles spiraling. It’s spring. Far below, the next
Fever overcomes me. The right wind is euphoric; the touch of fingers. I am the one who is going to cry though my winter
This morning in Tamale, a woman sprinkles dried red peppers over her ceramic plate of plantains and yams. It is the hour of feasting,