I need to write. I cannot write. I need to write.
You, too? This summer, 20 true words per day.
Age 12 1990 golden Chevy 1/2 ton Age 16 1986 grey Saab totaled Age 17 1959 black Chrysler Windsor Golden-Lion 1972 yellow Volkswagen Beetle 1969 tan convertible Volkswagen Beetle busted fuel pump; never ran Age 18 1995 black Ford Mustang Age 19 1995 black Camry Age 20 2002 silver Saturn Age 26 2002 tan Honda…
My first man left me
(a grammar lesson on the relationship between “love-able” and “leave-able”) on a curb, weekend-bag packed asleep, in a car, outside an unemployment office in a ditch, beside the road, dust rising up behind the car like some dirty comment bubble at the graveyard, next to a cold reservoir and an open grave
What it’s like to be parented by a poet
II. The child asks for a toy gun. The poet says, “no.” The white child asks why. The poet answers, “You cannot have a toy gun because a black child cannot play with a toy gun without getting shot at by the police.”