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The kitchen is a cathedral.
The kitchen is a cathedral. The butter on the sideboard in a glorious melt of sunshine outdone only by her mother, a longed for apparition.
Read moreI died without the beautiful unfolding
I died without the beautiful unfolding accorded to calla lilies. Had I those days between shoot & droop, what wonders—what works to perform.
Read moreThey'd clung like people not wanting to die
They’d clung like people not wanting to die tend to do—the ghosts in them already breathing. Then as quiet as dew they drifted away.
Read moreMy father cries when Miriam Makeba sings
My father cries when Miriam Makeba sings, “Benkuphi ma madoda.” “Soweto,” he weeps, “I still carry my stones. For Paul. For my tongue.”
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