Preface . . .
There are all night prayers in momma’s house, all night prayers upon my bed. My face hurts, my tear-ducts, my nostrils are swollen; see, my streets, are not like other streets. My sidewalks have caved in. These knees I carry, they are not mine, but I don’t know it.
The women drag their skirted burdens around the floors. Open all the windows let their spirits out. We are sisters; we are lovers of waters that nourish our souls. Put aside; ratchet disposition put aside our nomadic tendencies: to roam, to run, to flee.
I’ve come to tell you, how salt taste. I’ve reassured this hope. Salt is not stagnant. We are not forsaken: alone like a fallen tree, alone drifting in rivers, alone in song, like rain.
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