Poetry/ Yerra Sugarman
Taht I liked to tousle his wavy hair, and call him Taht, Yiddish for Dad. His eyes gleamed as if wonder nudged him with its elbow; as when a traveling salesman sold...
Poetry/ Uche Nduka
On the Fender Of the misplacing of the best kept cultural secret of a film crew (trying to get a sponge) no pussyfooting with a calabash (earring and leather...