The honey I stir into my tea raises eyebrows when friends see it’s called Superfund honey.
Drought pales the dip of meadow coming into view.
The wine glass my mother threw across the kitchen floor
No voices for miles around. A glint caught my eye nonetheless.
Black ice was the smoothest anyone could skate on—
I am enraged when apologists for colonization pose the question of British presence adding value to brown and Black lives—
See us running with our hearts between our legs
When she sleeps, the sums live in a cupboard behind thin glass doors. She propagates cuttings
Three does not make a colony
Hypothesis: You were taught that if you tried hard enough, you would succeed. This was a lie.