Poetry

On this day, during some tough year, I was born from simple soil.Red clay. Ocher dust. No forefather. Only my overworked mother named me.I was found in a basket of wild grasses. My vine and tuber secretive, curling.I, this yam, wish to remain whole. I, severed root.Find me, this severed root, waiting not for hand …

I dropped into my father’s casketa faded photoin which he stood on a beach, ankle deepin an ocean wave, lifting a child.He swung me high into morning.My bucket hat flew from my head,landing in a moat circling a fortressmolded from sand and store-boughtconch shells.His powdered face at restless beautiful than his surprisewhen milk for our …

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