Creative Non-Fiction

Brown Girl in the Ring

Amidst all the swirling anxieties of the pandemic, I had almost forgotten I was brown. I had forgotten that the eyes looking out from above my mask were deep inky pools which so often failed to reflect familiarity and belonging.I had forgotten that, while my hands were gloved and hidden, my sepia arms betrayed my origins in a sun-washed and sun-dried land.

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(Un)masking a Poet as Plural and Porous

Who “I” am is entangled with a host of others, not just other humans and their stories, transnational production processes, institutions of power, but also clusters of other-than-humans, including other animals, bodies of water, lands, and even inorganic elements such as viruses. “I” am vulnerable and plural because the border of my skin is porous and because in my psyche are lodged the thoughts and ideas of others.

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Where Longing Lives

I am not homeless in the literal sense and I don’t have the language to describe the home for which I feel intense longing. Terrene, waves, raindrops, bark, foundation, walls, roof, pen strokes on a page, flick of the tongue, tightening of lips, closure of the vocal chords, intimacy, trust, embrace, connection.

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