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mornings I’m lured to the milk teeth of
what happened is happening now:
I was always alone—biting, chewing really
gnawing till bone shone white through skin
inside/outside like an amputated limb, gaugeless
coloratura of you can make peace
all the while crows mocked from the trees
so it really was a joke:
everyone just kidding after all
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A recording of our virtual literary event with three generations of Black women writers.
Remembering poets Lynda Hull and Michael S. Harper, with original portraits
Netflix’s Maid and three recent best-sellers depict the agonies and rage of being a low-wage housekeeper or nanny. But all fail to identify capitalism itself as the culprit.