That night, I dreamed of a city older than knowledge/ Dreamed of Serratia, climbed up from the soil
Sometimes, however, the poetry in a first book leaps fully formed like Athena from Hera’s (no, not Zeus’s) head. In any case, a first book, like any beginning, is something to celebrate.
Nksoi Nkululeko reads “What Happened Over the Weekend,” a poem by Heather Taylor Johnson
Deven Kolluri reads “Toast,” a poem by Michael Montlacka
Left, my bright half, gets all of it…/ soft sharp prickly wet lined./ But press your head against my right shoulder,/ I sense weight but no warmth.
Her lovely face captured the one/ available male in the old folks’ home./ She’s found, at long last, Mr. Right
Nksoi Nkululeko reads “Her Marked Black Body,” a poem by Cynthia Parker-Ohene
1. Eat When You Can. Sleep When You Can./ With the pad of my finger I collect crumb/ after crumb like a hopeful, disappearing braille.
Behind the thick, crosshatched glass of the cruiser/ my brother, back for the holiday, breathes/ more slowly.