Essay by B. Tyler Lee
She grants me the ability to breathe underwater in this year of oceans.
She grants me the ability to breathe underwater in this year of oceans.
A farmer named Amadou took him into a millet field to see a tree that was possessed.
She’s staring dreamily at the bronze figures, life-size, in full gallop, cascading from their marble pedestal.
A schmaltzy, eerily familiar tune that loops along, accordions swelling and shrinking, high-heeled, lipsticked women la-la-la-la-la-la-ing.
the priests—told the neighbors not—to sell their houses—told the white neighbors—not to sell their houses to black people—that to do so would be a beginning of an end
Come home early, don’t (whatever), drive carefully, keep well, see you at Thanksgiving.
When I close my eyes, I see neon. I’m told the baby is stoic.
Readers and writers can talk to each other across times and cultures.
Snow White, anemic: Should have eaten more red meat.
Fat content of dreams. Calories in a carnal fantasy.