The baby had come from a place none of us could remember. Our grandmother was headed there.
The author of Mother of God discusses the limitations of realism, Frank Bidart, and the anguished duality of shame.
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The baby had come from a place none of us could remember. Our grandmother was headed there.
The author of Mother of God discusses the limitations of realism, Frank Bidart, and the anguished duality of shame.
Standing in the wreckage of these spaces unlocks a sensation people often crave, but can’t name.
It’s an imagined past, a pastoral imaginary, an alternate timeline in the multiverse.
“Bird,” he cried, “I come on behalf of the emperor. Your voice is all anyone speaks of.”
In order to find purpose and affirmation, Black artists rethink time and space as we know it to find a place for themselves.
Before I read The View from Saturday, I saw anger as a luxury, a way to take up physical and emotional space that I didn’t think I deserved to occupy.
There are an approximate 239456789987565 flood myths in recorded history. Here’s another one.
The poet and MTV columnist on witnessing, mapping grief and joy, and The Wire.
Some women have trouble wanting, but my instincts were indistinguishable from my cravings. My wanting was the leash that pulled me through my life. Until one day the leash was off.
The author of Uptown Thief on sex work myths, fetishizing cash and the new golden age of television.