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Infernal glow. Scarlet ellipse mid-drift
in the still-swelling snow / shock of blood
in a milky eye. Here, things go to shit
in predictable ways. Ways we love,
until we don’t. Until they don’t. Jude,
her arms obscured in tendril’d sleeves
of flame, in ink & iconography,
tends. Here, everyone & -thing is linked:
as kith, thick w/ kin. The candles, briefly,
an order. They make of morning a fin,
a folly. They’re kindred. They kindle.
They let the hagiography begin.
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Decades of biological research haven’t improved diagnosis or treatment. We should look to society, not to the brain.
Though a means of escaping and undermining racial injustice, the practice comes with own set of costs and sacrifices.
Pioneering Afro-Brazilian geographer Milton Santos sought to redeem the field from its methodological fragmentation and colonial legacies.