My Father’s Hands
We practiced the cycle of sail raising with a sea chanty: Off with the sail covers, Unknot the ties, Pull up the main sail, Try not to jibe, before tacking out to Star Island, peeing in a bucket, rowing ashore for pistachio ice-cream, skipping beach stones. At anchor we would swim off Clod’s wide stern, my father’s hands pulling us back aboard.
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7th Mar 2010 by Ellen M. Taylor
2010 February Issue, bredren and sistren, catch a fire | no comments read on
2010 February Issue, bredren and sistren, catch a fire | no comments read on
Urban War
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Bumboclaat, whole heap o’ gunshot
Police and soldier come in a jeep back
Everywhere me turn more bullet pop off
Lord have mercy, man, we’re under attack
7th Mar 2010 by Randall Baker
2010 February Issue, bredren and sistren, spoken word | no comments read on
2010 February Issue, bredren and sistren, spoken word | no comments read on
