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/