Of course all art is omnidirectional, but this is straight from the bones of my grandmother’s joy as she reaches for a new book and the love bled into my lungs by my mother’s womb. This is straight at the sick-souled man who taught me how to fear instead of love. This is for the children I have taught and the women I have brought into my kitchen and fed meatloaf, cake, cinnamon rolls. They fed me love, from the other side of fear, What words can scrub away the places I have been and the people who have placed me, broken, here.
