What Is Left, What Is Held, What Is Grown As Roots
Always the most vulnerable will die. There will be others, too, but it begins there. And we see, in slow moving real time, whose life is valued, whose life is not.
When I miss baba at school, I cry on the inside so no one can see
This is science, called logicThis is how you choose a good mangocalled discernment.
Hope Wabuke is a poet, writer, and assistant professor of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. She has won awards from the National Endowment for the Arts, VONA, and the Barbara Deming Memorial Fund for Women Writers, and is the author of the forthcoming memoir Please Don't Kill My Black Son Please.
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All the wrong people are crying, and all the people who ought to feel something do not.
We’d denounce the marches and torches and chants. When that moment passed, we’d continue to live with the ghosts of our country’s peculiar legacy.
Once a mixed-race fishing community, the island is now empty, showing the gap between the state’s history and what it professes to be.