It Was My Father Who Could Do

The Men Began To Trade Tales Of Atrocities, First Stories They Had Heard, Then Those They'd Witnessed, And Finally The Things That Had Happened To Themselves. A Litany Of Personal Humiliation, Outrage, And Anger Turned Sicklelike Back To Themselves As Humor. They Laughed Then, Uproariously, About The Speed With Which They Had Run, The Pose They Had Assumed, The Ruse They Had Invented To Escape Or Decrease Some Threat To Their Manliness, Their Humanness. All But Empire State, Who Stood, Broom In Hand And Drop-lipped, With The Expression Of A Very Intelligent Ten-year-old.

I Didn't Fall In Love, I Rose In It.

Black Women Are The Touchstone By Which All That Is Human Can Be Measured.

Narrative Is Radical, Creating Us At The Very Moment It Is Being Created.

It Is Sheer Good Fortune To Miss Somebody Long Before They Leave You.