While preparing this issue of TSR, a number of our staff moved house—some several hours’ drive away, some to the other side of town. Others have spent time away for work, family, holidays. I’ve been living far from the place I think of as my home, and in recent months have hosted family and friends for long visits, in an effort to make this life into my life. Loved ones and I have spent this time talking about mutual friends (and enemies), cooking for each other and watching each other eat.
Spirit softened / by calloused hands, passed from merchant to missionary / to foreign school through fluent French negotiations / regarding the terms of exchange.
it must be hard to laugh off constant / reinfection whisper herd immunity / like the password to a speakeasy / with me / us / the weekly dead / sat here like warts on pumpkins / ruining the normal
it’s Monday morning / cockatoos all be screeching / and the wailing’s been getting under / my black skin. and he’s been finding / his people back in East Legon.
I love this rock I just picked up / swimsuit: dripping hip bones / wet dog: admires his new-found body positivity
I stay alive though, sensing velocity / as an ambulance would in a dream— / brisk, accidental. Remember the first time / your little bones cried for milk?
The gesture is so cliched it comes as a relief; I understand perfectly the way he wants everything to unfold. His shorts are fluorescent in the darkness. They gather on his stubby work boots.
Sometimes it’s like my body doesn’t exist and I’m just a spirit floating between spaces. But sometimes I’m all charged up and I feel as if I need to touch someone and be touched or I’ll shiver into sparks. Do you ever feel that that?
The late nights sink into early mornings, and I begin to write when everyone is asleep. To survive and honour my girlhood, I must carve my own world of interiors.