Reviewed by Dave Seter Childhood can be a time of intense joy and disappointment. An old idiom counsels: children should be seen and not
When I was inside my mother her body was still reeling with the blood of war—her blood now the table from which I fed,
A mother spends the evening rearranging the siblings in their beds. Each child is a misbehaved angel, each limb demanding the attention of a
Brings me back to our kitchen in the projects. Cow curtains and magnets lining the yellow refrigerator packed with food we couldn’t eat