VALENTINE'S DAY SPECIAL FEATURE: 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗠𝗔𝗚𝗨𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗟𝗨𝗘 𝗛𝗢𝗨𝗥 from 𝙉𝙚𝙬 𝙔𝙤𝙧𝙠 𝙖𝙩 𝙏𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩

𝙑𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙚’𝙨 𝘿𝙖𝙮 𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢: 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝, 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝙸𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔; 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚕, 𝚞𝚗𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚐 𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚍.

𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢’𝚜 𝚅𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎’𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝, 𝚠𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟷, “𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗮𝗴𝘂𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗕𝗹𝘂𝗲 𝗛𝗼𝘂𝗿,” 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙉𝙚𝙬 𝙔𝙤𝙧𝙠 𝙖𝙩 𝙏𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩: 𝙎𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙏𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙂𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙢’𝙨 𝙒𝙚𝙞𝙧𝙙 & 𝙀𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚 — 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚒𝚛-𝚕𝚢𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝙼𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚗’𝚜 𝚕’𝚑𝚎𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚞𝚎, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚖𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚌, 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍-𝚒𝚗-𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚎. 𝙰 𝚐𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚒 𝚃𝚊𝚒𝚜, 𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗-𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝, 𝚊 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚒 𝚃𝚢𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚎: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎.

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗠𝗔𝗚𝗨𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗟𝗨𝗘 𝗛𝗢𝗨𝗥

I read Honey’s text: “Lady X, it’s my 1st show in ritzy 57th St gallery & rum sponsor is handing out Mai Tais—nothing to do with my work wtf—I feel unseen so if out drop by.”

I need escape. I’m ready for some fun with Honey.

I sense a cold coming on and free Mai Tais will help me weather that approaching storm while I contemplate my last essay in a ten-part series which asks: If civilization is annihilating the wilderness, what happens to the wilderness within us? I’m thinking Central Park’s two blocks from Honey’s gallery and scary as hell after dark so wandering around high on Mai Tais may bring the wilderness out in me.

I walk out into the day’s fading light. I hail a taxi.

I arrive at the gallery early and grab a Mai Tai. I wander from room to room, thrilled to have such excellent views of the work, relieved that the herds have not yet gathered.

I’m totally knocked out by Honey’s show, “How Boundless Love Seams,” ten photos of a man and a woman running toward one another open armed and exuberant. But each photo widens the angle and reveals other people—outraged spouses, shocked children—in their midst. And because she shows me love’s power to create and destroy in the same image, I’m thinking Love is the first clue for the wilderness-within-us article.

Honey looks great in her custom cobalt blue jumpsuit. She waves me over.

She gushes at my non-stop stream of compliments. She turns and I see who has been chatting her up—a black-haired babe magnet—and she says, “Lady X, this is Mr. Y, a photographer.”

She’s called away, and suddenly alone with him, I’m thinking Photographer? Please, he’s an actor playing a Y chromosome.

I sense heat nevertheless. I feel my skin start to breathe.

I check his good teeth, Roman nose, rugged face, dimpled chin. I scan the longish wavy mane, brown corduroy jacket, black elbow patches, safari shirt, top buttons opened, chest hair spilling out. His smile says I’ll make you come, so I’m naturally turned on—he’s both manly specimen and cliché—but philosophically opposed. I’m thinking So he can rattle my teacup but can he talk afterwards?

He starts talking: “I can’t stop thinking about you, Lady X, and your article in the Village Voiceless last week, how we’re twenty plus years into a new century and more embarked than ever on a wave of mass extinction that’s wiping out half of the planet’s ten million species of plants, animals and fish. I agree with you that Gaia, mother of us all, might, like pulling a tick out of her armpit, exterminate us to save what’s left of life on Earth. We’re acting like reptiles and refusing our role as eco-steward homo faber mammals—but if nature can be carefree, why can’t we?—so I keep returning to your conclusion that our consciousness is not separate from other species and the sounds we make in the sexual abandon of la petit mort are the death knells of the species we’ve made extinct by our compulsive reproduction and abuse of natural resources.”

He loves my work. He quotes me verbatim, huzzah!

He gets my twisted sense of humor but then he blurts out, “Listen, I need a minute to get myself together because you’re standing so close to me and you look like how you read, that is, breathtakingly beautiful and so alive, it’s like your skin is open, so let me cool off and calm down and get us both another Mai Tai.” I finally catch on: Mr. Y is no one-note samba he-man but a total charm boat, spontaneous, unafraid to share his feelings, and for the first time this evening I’m glad I’m wearing a little black dress, badass heels and bling.

He takes my red plastic cup and the back of his hand brushes against my chest—I’m thinking Accidentally?—and my foolish nipples harden to his touch. As he disappears into the crowd, I want to lunge after him but I slow the breathing and check the mascara. He returns with refills and looks at me with these probing dark brown eyes.

We down more Mai Tais. We hit the street with a blazing buzz on.

We reach for the other’s hand at the same time. We saunter down Eighth Avenue and I say, “Manhattan is suspended in what you photographers call l’heure bleue” and he says, “What would you call this hour” and I say, “‘Twilight, a timid fawn, went glimmering by’” and he adds, “‘And Night, the dark-blue hunter, followed fast’” quoting George William Russell’s “Refuge” back to me as if he could read the words from my mind—as if destiny were guiding our meeting.

“We’re on the same wavelength,” he says so candidly that I start to melt a little, “and I should admit that I imagined you as loving daring charming and in person you’re all that times ten, Lady X.” These words find me arm in arm with him, and in company so assuring, I’m thinking We’re a great fit and he’s really built for speed.

He slows down. He stops a block later.

He looks as if he were under my spell. He seems willing to do anything for me so I move us out of view of pedestrian traffic and ask him to look the other way. I step out of my panties, slip them into my purse and snuggle into him, and as we start walking, the summer wind caresses me down there which sends the joyous abandon coursing through my whole body.

He asks me with such genuine concern—two blocks later when my heavy breathing gives me away—if I’m all right and I’m thinking Mr. Y is the magus of the blue hour filling me with his magic; I’m under his spell!

I pull him aside. I put the palm of my hand over his heart.

I get misty when he wraps his corduroy jacket around me which smells so inviting, so him, and he holds me closer which feels so good as we stroll, and as a gentle rain falls from the purple-blue sky, he looks so virile with the ends of his curly hair dew-dropped and his shirt a little damp. I’m thinking It’s either going to be steamy sex in a Hell’s Kitchen vestibule that we’ll regret later or another drink right now.

I stop under a chic sign in red neon spelling Thai Tyger, pinch his nipples with my fingertips—because I’m getting too hot to handle—and whisper, “I’m awfully hungry! Let’s nosh, no? Another Mai Tai or two, Mr. Y?”

His eyes glaze over. His face drops.

His head hangs, his body appears paralyzed, as if eating here would be the worst thing that could possibly happen, but alcohol is involved so I barge through the door on my own and follow the maître d’ past a long aquarium and teakwood bar which leads into a maze of flat black walkways without clues as to where the restaurant begins or ends.

His manners return, he catches up and we swivel into a small private booth with odd angles of track lighting that reveal a large oil painting framed in ornate gold-leaf of the Queen of Siam—beaming regally, colors pulsing—and his pouting face, so I’m thinking Is it already over with Mr. I-Yi-Yi?

He takes a long drink of water. He gathers himself.

He high-beams me the promise of sexual healing, not about to let my restaurant choice foil him. He says, “You see the whole mess we’re in, Lady X: While the Lake poets revered nature, walked the woods and wrote the Romantic movement into being, the English navy carved up Asia and Africa whose reverence for nature was considered backwards and legitimated their conquest. Our treatment of women and lack of reverence for nature go hand in hand making it only more unfortunate that the only remaining path to reverence our culture takes seriously is the passion of erotic ecstasy as you pointed out.”

Mr. Y is reading me like a psychic and I’m thinking Such relentless chutzpah—using my own writing to seduce me.

I’m sense the deep tingle now. I’m past my philosophical opposition.

I’m wondering how he keeps growing more attractive. I see I’m-a-better-future-for-your-children written all over him, and though I don’t want children now or ever, his strong upper body, chiseled features, shapely frontal lobes above his brows, that thick head of black hair and scent of a hunter cause impulses long dead, nearly extinct, to awaken passionate erotic ecstasy within me.

I’m full of grave misgivings about overpopulating a planet but I’m still a woman, and now that I know that I want him, I have to get up and move around or just undress him right here in this private booth so I shush his half-hearted objection, unbuckle his belt and unzip him. Although I like where this is going—accuse me of bait and switch, I’ve been called worse—I stand up, make a T with my hands, walk down the corridor to the far end of the bar by the aquarium. And all right, sue me, a few of my friends who know I work late and appreciate meeting for a drink after hours and no, I don’t sleep with all of them but yes I’m thinking Better check my phone messages and clear the deck just in case.

I see his questioning look upon my return. I owe him an answer.

I close his eyes and open my purse. I turn on my tape recorder to get his truth on record, slide closer until we’re leg to leg, pick up my Mai Tai, open his eyelids and say, “To nothing pressing, Mr. Y.”

I clink rims with him and lock eyes and now the mating dance is on for real. I’m delighted when the waitress returns because—without breaking eye contact with me—he speaks to her in Thai and they laugh and she disappears, and in the heightened silence that sexual arousal and Mai Tais provide, I undress him in my mind but I’m thinking I’m not sure what to do next.

I run my hands through his hair. I part his lips with the push of my fingers.

I open his mouth wide and French kiss him. I feel kind of sexy in this dark booth, but I’m distracted by his bulging-throbbing-springing thing out of his unzipped pants and decide the best move is to bring relief. I get on my hands and knees and go down on him under the table, but as I take him in my mouth, I get a charley horse in my left leg.

Although we laugh, I know this looks bad and as he massages away the cramp, I’m thinking I don’t want to lose my appetite or my reputation but I must get a grip, at least find out his first name.

I check the waitress setting down soup and dumplings. I catch her looking at Y.

I ask Y how well he knows this joint. “I know it through Zee,” he says, “a friend from my old Brooklyn neighborhood in Bensonhurst. Zee left my mother a message and told me to meet him here but get this: I had just returned from Thailand and no one knew because I had been off the radar having fled New York to avoid a death threat I had received while employed by a private investigator who collected evidence on extra-marital affairs. I had taken photos detrimental to a celebrity known for vengeance—I’m not going to say who—only that if I’d been told all the details, I never would have tailed this whack job in the first place. But at least the boss called to tell me he had given me up and that I had about an hour to get out of town. So on the plane I resolved never to work for anybody but myself and to never use photography, the true love of my life, against anyone. I shaved my head, practiced meditation, wandered the jungles, made pilgrimages to retreats deep in the Thai wilderness, and because, as a student, Ansel Adams’ Zen-like landscapes and Minor White’s foreground-background switcheroos were like lifelines, I felt I deserved my exile for almost destroying a man with my photographs, the result of abandoning my artistic calling to pay the rent.”

I’m thinking Y’s journey is the last article’s ontogenic-phylogenic journey: his life in civilized society leads him to need money which leads him to misuse his artistic gift which leads to death threats and his exodus into the jungle wilderness which leads to his atonement with nature and leads him to re-inhabit civilization and return to the city that ran him out. He’s our uncertain future.

I feel like I am seeing Mr. Y clearly for the first time. I want to tell him so.

I see the waitress return with chicken in basil. I’m sure these two know each other.

I ask him what happened with Zee. “I answered all Zee’s questions about my meditations and monasteries,” Y says, “and then Zee asked if there were any wild animals left because his only fear was the white Bengal tiger, worshipped in Bengal and Thailand during the moon’s crescent phase as the incarnation of Shiva, the destroyer of the illusion we’re enveloped in. I told Zee I had no idea and I heard no more of him until a year later. A package arrived addressed to me which my Sicilian mother called mallocchio—the evil eye—and gave her bad dreams. So I rushed over, opened the package and inside was a broken camera which contained a roll of film that I took into the dark room and developed. The first shots were of Zee in tourist scenes but the last ten shots revealed a white Bengal tiger: hiding in the jungle, walking into the open, leaping toward the camera, then with the right arm of Zee in its mouth and the very last frame blank.”

I’m thinking Zee’s photos are the coda to the last article on the existing wilderness: humans need to honor other species’ territories; mother nature has spoken.

Mr. Y starts to break down. He looks up at me wide-eyed.

He’s changed from a Y chromosome to the word Why. He asks, “What does it mean that you and I are sitting here in the same restaurant at the same table eating the same dishes as Zee and me, Lady X?”

Mr. Y looks aghast when I tell him, “Our desire is a ‘fearful symmetry’ as William Blake called his tyger tyger burning bright. And our arriving in the Thai Tyger at this table eating these foods means it’s time you got off the wheel of repeating behaviors, that is, you’ve used your art as a weapon once—and have been hunted ever since—so come to my place; it’s a safe haven. No one will find you and I can hold you.” I’m thinking Did I over-pitch?

“I’m under the curse of Zee,” Mr. Y cries. I pay him no mind.

I lick his tears away. I put my lips on his thick lips and hope for the best.

I start getting swept up into the delicious tongue and groove play and it’s really getting wet down below and my nipples are protruding like bullets against the tight stretch dress—call me a tease, whatever—but I’m thinking My bladder’s about to burst. So I break away from his clutches, grab my purse, put my finger on his lips, walk a long time this way and that, then stop at the end of the maze and face two doors marked only in Thai.

I open Door Number One. I enter a large outdoor garden.

I am drawn in by the luscious fragrance of gardenia. I step up onto a metal walkway that winds through a forest of large exotic ferns, but my heel soon gets caught in the grating. Although I’m standing immobile—unable to get my foot out of the shoe or the heel out of the metal grid—I’m thinking I should have asked Y more about the curse of Zee because above me a crescent moon has risen in a clear sky and below me sits an altar adorned with images of Shiva Nataraj.

I can just make out in the distance the shape of a white Bengal tiger fast approaching against the rapid staccato clicks of a high-speed camera.

🛒 𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲 today: 𝙉𝙚𝙬 𝙔𝙤𝙧𝙠 𝙖𝙩 𝙏𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 on Amazon 👇

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New York at Twilight

Selected Tales of Gotham’s Weird & Eerie

A collection of twilight-zone NYC tales—eerie, lyrical, and strange.

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𝑨𝑵𝑪𝑬𝑺𝑻𝑹𝑨𝑳 𝑬𝑪𝑯𝑶 by 𝐑𝐚𝐲 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭

𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎: 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟷 𝚘𝚏 𝑨𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝑬𝒄𝒉𝒐 𝚋𝚢 𝐑𝐚𝐲 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭. 𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒 𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗, 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍.

𝑨𝑵𝑪𝑬𝑺𝑻𝑹𝑨𝑳 𝑬𝑪𝑯𝑶 by 𝐑𝐚𝐲 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭

𝓒𝓗𝓐𝓟𝓣𝓔𝓡 𝟏

The Mississippi sun had no patience for children or the old. It beat down flat on the cotton fields, hot as a grudge, as young Eloise stumbled barefoot behind her grandfather. Her toes sank into the red, cracked earth with every step, but she didn’t complain. Not out loud. Complaints didn’t grow crops, and they didn’t earn supper either.
Her grandfather—Papa Moses—was a thin, leather-faced man with calloused hands and a spine that refused to bend, even when the world tried to fold him in half. He plowed with a mule named Clara and a rusted blade he'd sharpened with river stones. His back was slick with sweat, but his rhythm never broke—step, push, breathe, step, push, breathe—like he was trying to push time itself forward with that blade.
Eloise clutched a tin can full of nails for fence repair. It rattled in her grip like bones.
"Papa," she asked, squinting against the sun, "how come we don’t got land like Mr. Billy?"
Moses paused. His breath puffed once through his nostrils, and the plow jolted to a stop. Clara flicked her tail impatiently.
“Mr. Billy,” he said slowly, “ain’t never earned dirt under his nails. His daddy stole land. His daddy’s daddy stole people. Now he sit in a house watchin’ me cut lines in his field like I’m part o’ the equipment.”
Eloise didn’t fully understand. But she felt the weight of his words—heavier than the can she carried.
"Why you don't buy some land, then?"
He looked at her like she’d asked why the sky didn’t bleed.
“Baby girl,” he said, setting both hands on the plow handles, “your great-granddaddy bought land. Paid in gold coin and sweat. White folks came with torches. Said he was 'uppity.' They burned the deed and the house. Left us with ash. Then came taxes we couldn’t pay. Then came lies on papers we couldn't read. We been payin’ rent ever since—on land we already paid for in blood.”
He said it without anger. Just fact. Like announcing the weather.
Eloise looked across the field—rows and rows of green on brown, stitched straight like God had used thread and ruler. In the distance, the white porch of Mr. Billy’s house blinked in the sunlight like a smug smile.
“I wanna have land someday,” she said, more to herself than him.
Papa Moses gave a dry chuckle and started the plow again.
“If you lucky, girl,” he said over his shoulder, “you might inherit somethin’ other than debt.”
The plow moved forward. Clara pulled. Dust swirled up in lazy spirals behind them.
Eloise walked behind, quiet now. She’d carry that moment in her blood for eighty years.
Even when the house she finally owned sagged at the porch. Even when her daughter resented her silence. Even when her grandson spat at the inheritance she offered. She’d remember this field, this heat, this echo of injustice passed down like a name.
Because it wasn’t just about land.
It was about the theft of futures, folded into polite laws and legal theft.
It was about how the soil remembered every hand that bled into it.
And how some hands never got to own the land they broke open.
Tasha’s beat-up Nissan coughed and rattled as it crawled down Carnell Boulevard, its rusted muffler dragging like a loose chain. She kept one hand on the wheel, the other tapping against the dashboard to keep her nerves from spilling over.
“This car’s the only thing I halfway own,” she muttered. “And it ain’t even worth the tires it’s sittin’ on.”
Jamal slouched in the passenger seat, hood up, watching the neighborhood roll by. New glass-front coffee shops pressed up against crumbling row houses. Luxury condos rose like teeth behind boarded-up corner stores. A mural of a Black boy with angel wings stared down at him from a brick wall—faded, tagged over, forgotten.
“Look at this,” Jamal said. “Cops cruisin’ every corner, brothers posted on porches just waitin’ to get pressed. And across the street? Yoga studios for people who ain’t never lived here. Feels like a trap, Mom. For us. Not for them.”
Tasha gripped the wheel tighter. “That’s why we’re goin’ to Mama’s. Rent went up again, and I ain’t lettin’ them squeeze us out while I’m drownin’ in bills. She’s the only family with a roof we can stand under.”
Jamal shook his head. “So now we movin’ into a museum. Dust and roaches and a house that’s already half condemned.”
Tasha shot him a look sharp enough to cut. “Watch your mouth. That ‘museum’ is the only thing your Nana owns free and clear. No landlord, no mortgage, no bank. That’s survival. That’s legacy—even if it don’t look like much to you.”
Jamal turned back to the window, jaw tight. He didn’t answer.
The Nissan turned onto Wadsworth, where boarded houses leaned like broken teeth. A police cruiser idled at the corner, the officer’s eyes following their car. Jamal’s chest tightened. He tugged his hood lower, muttering, “Whole damn block feels like a setup.”
Tasha didn’t argue. She pressed the gas and kept her eyes forward, praying the engine wouldn’t die before they reached Eloise’s porch.
Inside boxes were everywhere—old purses, vinyl records, dead electronics, and stacks of newspapers yellowed like old teeth. The air in Eloise’s house was thick with heat and time, and every movement stirred up decades of dust and silence.
Tasha shoved a box aside with her foot, exhaling sharply.

“You sure you don’t want to sell anything in here? Jesus, Ma. You got a damn typewriter.”
Eloise didn’t look up from her recliner. “That typewriter typed your uncle’s college application. Before he got drafted.”
Jamal stood at the window, arms crossed, hoodie up despite the heat. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

 “This house worth less than the gas we spent gettin’ here,” he muttered.
Tasha whipped her head toward him. “Can you not?”
“I’m just sayin’,” Jamal replied. “We ain’t rich. We ain’t even okay. Why are we wasting time pretending like this old shack is some legacy?”
Eloise’s eyes narrowed. She set down her teacup with a clink.

“I paid for this ‘shack’ in full. Never missed a tax. Bought it when no bank would touch me. You think it just grew here?”
Jamal laughed bitterly. “Yeah? And what it buy me? You wanna hand down struggle like it’s a family heirloom?”
“Boy—” Eloise started.
“No, for real,” he snapped, stepping forward now. “You got nothin’ in stocks. No savings. No insurance. What you think you leaving us, huh? This peeling wallpaper?”
Tasha moved between them. “Jamal, chill. You don’t talk to her like that.”
“Why not?” he barked. “She talks to me like I’m ungrateful. But I ain’t asked to inherit poverty.”
Eloise rose slowly, her hands shaking—not with fear, but fury. “You ain’t inherit poverty. You inherited war. One we been fightin’ with our hands tied for generations.”
Before anyone could answer, a car horn blared outside.
Tasha turned to the window. “Who the hell…?”
Jamal’s face changed. “Shit. That’s Ant.”
“What’s he doing here?” Tasha asked, alarm rising.
“Dropping off my tablet. Chill.”
He jogged outside, hoodie still on, stepping onto the porch.
And that’s when it happened.
A black-and-white squad car came screaming down the street, lights flashing.
Two white officers jumped out, guns already drawn.

“HANDS! NOW!”

Eloise screamed from inside. “JAMAL!”
Jamal froze, hands going up slowly. “Yo—yo! What the hell?!”
“On the ground! Now!”
His knees hit the grass. The officer closest to him shoved him forward hard—face-first into the dirt. A knee on his neck. Another on his back. His hoodie bunched around his throat.
Inside, Tasha bolted for the door. Eloise grabbed her wrist. “No. They’ll kill you too.”
Ant’s car, an old gray Honda, idled awkwardly in the driveway as the second officer opened the passenger door, pointing his weapon inside.

 "False report. Suspect matching vehicle in area.”
“You kidding me?” Ant stammered. “I’m dropping off a damn tablet—!”
Tasha broke free. By the time she hit the porch, the officers were checking IDs, realizing their mistake. No apology. No eye contact. Just retreat. Jamal coughed in the grass, face dirty, shirt pulled up.
Eloise stood on the porch like a statue made of stone and rage.
Inside, minutes later, Jamal paced the living room with shaking hands. Blood ran from a small cut above his eye.
“I almost died,” he said. “Because I wore a f*cking hoodie.”
Tasha handed him a wet rag and glared at Eloise. “Tell me again how this house makes us safe.”
Eloise sat down hard. “It doesn’t. It never did. But it’s all I had to fight with.”
“No,” Jamal snapped. “You had silence. You had secrets. You had fear. And you passed it down like recipes.”
Tasha folded her arms. “You wanna know the truth, Ma? You left us nothing but debt and trauma. And you act like we owe you for it.”
Eloise stared into her lap.
Then, very slowly, she stood.
She went to a box by the bookshelf and pulled out a thick envelope. It was stained, sealed, and wrapped in twine. She dropped it on the table.
“You wanna know what I tried to leave you?”
She untied it. Inside: a burned, half-legible land deed. 1913. Her father’s name at the bottom.
“They burned our land. Then burned our records. Then called us lazy. And y’all blame me.”
Silence.
Jamal looked at the paper, then at her.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” he asked, voice low.
“Because every time I told someone what they did to us… they called me bitter. Or crazy. Or ungrateful. Or a liar.”
A long pause.
“I didn’t leave you wealth,” she said. “I left you the truth. That’s the only damn thing they couldn’t repossess.”
Jamal sat on the porch swing, the rag still pressed to his eyebrow, already stained red. His breathing had calmed, but his body hadn't—his legs bounced like they were trying to outrun what just happened.
Tasha stood near the screen door, phone to her ear. “Yeah. He’s okay. No, they let him go. No charges. They had the wrong f*cking car.”

 She listened, nodded, said “thank you,” then hung up and threw the phone on the couch.
Eloise sat in her old chair, holding the burnt land deed like it was a stillborn child. Her thumb traced the blackened corner.
Silence sat on them like a preacher before the eulogy.
“I felt his boot on my f*cking neck,” Jamal finally said, voice hoarse. “Not metaphorically. Literally. Real leather. Real dirt in my mouth. I said, 'I'm not who you think I am,' and he said, 'I don’t care.’ You hear me? I don’t care.”
Tasha turned to him. “I know.”
“You don’t know. He was going to kill me. If Ant hadn’t screamed... I’m dead. Face down on Nana’s lawn.”
Eloise’s voice came quiet but firm. “You think you the first boy in this family almost killed for bein’ in the wrong place with the wrong skin?”
Jamal looked up, lip curled.
And she stood.
“You wanna hear a story? Fine. I’ll give you the goddamn ledger. Been writin’ it in my head since I was ten.”
She walked to the hallway closet, yanked down a dusty photo album, and threw it on the table. Pictures tumbled out—men in hats, women with pressed hair, kids in overalls with eyes too old.
She tapped one photo. A smiling man in uniform. “That’s my cousin Josiah. Came back from World War II with medals. Wanted to open a barbershop. Know what the bank told him?”
“Lemme guess,” Jamal muttered. “No.”
“No,” Eloise said sharply. “But not because he was broke. Because he was Black. GI Bill said ‘equal opportunity’—but not for him. Not in Mississippi.”
She flipped the page. Another photo. A small brick storefront, half-burnt.
“That was his shop. He built it anyway. With help from neighbors. Three months later, white boys firebombed it for being ‘too uppity.’ Police said it was a grease fire.”
She turned another page. A newspaper clipping—Wilmington Massacre. (See Appendix)
“That’s your great-great uncle. Shot in the back running from a mob. Built up a business. They didn’t just kill him—they erased the paperwork. We had land in Tulsa too. You ever wonder why our family don’t got a business to pass down?”
She shoved the book forward. Jamal stared.
“They took the land, the receipts, the bloodlines, and then had the nerve to call us irresponsible.”
His hand trembled slightly as he picked up one faded deed. The name “W.L. Thompson” scrawled across it.
Eloise leaned in, eyes fierce. “You say I left you nothin’. But you don’t even know what was stolen before I could leave it.”
Tasha sat now, quietly. Her face looked hollowed out.
“They burned towns, boy,” Eloise said. “Black Wall Street? That ain’t a myth. Planes. Bombs. No insurance payouts. You know why the cops ain’t come?”
Jamal didn’t answer.
“They were the mob.”
She stepped back, breathing heavy now, tears threatening but refusing to fall. “We been robbed by governments. Robbed by banks. Robbed by fire and badge and Bible. And every time we get back up, they move the damn finish line.”
A long silence followed.
Tasha picked up one deed corner, turning it over. “So what do we do, Ma? Just… keep surviving?”
Eloise looked at her with a sudden fire. “Hell no. We build. And we tell the truth this time. Loud.”
She turned to Jamal.
“You say you want legacy? Then take this pain and plant something with it. Don’t just scroll and scream. Write it down. Tell folks. Burn the shame and keep the name.”
Jamal stood slowly. Still trembling. Still hurt.
But something in his face had shifted. He looked back at the pile of papers. The receipts of generations gone.
He nodded once.
“Then let’s write it all down,” he said. “Every f*cked up page.”
The smell of dust and sweat lingered in the room like an accusation.
Eloise sat stiff-backed at the table, the burned land deed resting between them like a loaded weapon.
Tasha’s arms were crossed. Her jaw tight. Her eyes locked on the paper, but she hadn’t touched it. Hadn’t spoken in minutes.
“You could’ve told me,” she finally said, voice low. Controlled.
“I tried,” Eloise replied, calm but bitter. “But you was too busy bein’ perfect to listen.”
Tasha scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you were the first to get a college degree, and suddenly you didn’t wanna hear ‘bout no old country tragedies. You wanted clean lines. Credit scores. Silence.”
Tasha’s voice sharpened. “You think I didn’t want to hear? I spent my whole life watching you hoard secrets like canned goods. Never told me how you bought the house. Never told me we owned land. Just kept saying, ‘save your money’ and ‘keep your head down.’ That ain’t legacy—that’s a muzzle.”
Eloise’s eyes narrowed.
“You mad at me for protectin’ you?”
“I’m mad at you for leaving me unarmed!” Tasha stood, palms slamming against the table. “You knew this happened. And you never made a will. You didn’t put my name on the deed. You didn’t teach me what to do with any of it!”
“I didn’t know how!” Eloise barked. “I ain’t had nobody show me either! You think I ain’t carry that weight? Every damn day, praying the IRS or the bank don’t come take what little I managed to stack? You think I ain’t ashamed I couldn’t leave y’all better?”
The room felt like it tilted.
Eloise’s voice cracked.
“I didn’t know how to plan a future, baby. I was too busy tryna survive the present.”
Tasha’s breath caught.
“I’ve… I’ve been scared to open mail, Ma,” she said quietly. “Since I was twenty-three. Scared of taxes, bills, notices. I passed that fear to Jamal. I watched him turn it into anger. I blamed you. I blamed him. But I never… I never taught him anything. Because I never learned myself.”
She sank into a chair.
“I work two jobs and I still feel broke. I push him to go to school. To get a job. But he sees right through it. He sees I’m scared. He sees we’re pretending.”
Eloise stared at her daughter—intently.
“I thought… if I just worked hard enough… and didn’t cause no trouble… maybe you’d never know how much they stole from us.”
She pushed the deed forward.
“This was your great-granddaddy’s. He bought twenty-three acres in Tulsa. I found this in a Bible after your granddaddy died. Burned on the edges. Ash stuck in the binding.”
Tasha picked it up now. Held it. Touched the char.
“You know what this is worth?” she whispered.
Eloise nodded slowly. “Every broken thing you feel.”
A creak from the stairs interrupted them.
Jamal.
He stood halfway down, one hand on the banister, face unreadable.
“You kept it?” he asked softly.
Eloise nodded. “Because they wanted us to forget. But we’re done forgetting now.”
Tasha looked at her son. Then at her mother. Then back to the deed in her hands.
“I want to make it right,” she said.
“You can’t,” Eloise said. “But you can build from it.”
They sat there like that—three generations, one table, one burned paper, and a silence that—for the first time—felt honest.
Jamal needed air. Or maybe he needed distance.
He left the house without telling them, hoodie up again, head low, fists stuffed deep in his pockets. The cold cloth in his palm was still damp from the blood—his blood. He squeezed it until it hurt.
The sidewalk cracked under his sneakers, uneven from roots that had forced their way through decades of cement. Trees too stubborn to die. Just like them.
He passed a row of shotgun houses—some boarded, some leaned like tired old men. Then, suddenly, the block flipped.
Modern. Polished. Unnatural.
Loft apartments with brushed metal balconies and QR codes posted outside: “Scan to Tour This Property—Now Leasing! Starting at $3,200/month.”
A dog spa.
An artisanal donut shop.
A Black Lives Matter sign in the window of a boutique that used to be Miss Charlene’s soul food restaurant.
Jamal’s jaw clenched.
He crossed the street, slowly, eyes locked on a luxury real estate office wrapped in white marble. Gold letters read: THE HOUSE GROUP – REDESIGNING THE FUTURE.
Inside, two white women in matching blazers stood at a massive glass table, sipping iced matcha.
He stared at the flyer taped to the window:
“$1.2M CONDO – Invest in a vibrant, diverse legacy!”
He spit on the sidewalk.
“What legacy?” he muttered. “Whose future?”
He turned and walked, faster now, pulse rising.
At the next corner stood a liquor store with bars on the windows, same one he’d seen his uncle Ray get jumped at ten years ago. Still standing. Still fenced in. Still forgotten.
And next to it, a crowd. Tight and loud.
Voices raised. A car door swung wide. Somebody pushed someone.
Jamal’s adrenaline surged.
He cut through the alley, stepped closer, eyes sharp.
A boy—maybe sixteen—was pressed against the wall by two plainclothes cops, badges out, fists ready. Another teen tried to film with shaky hands, but a third officer knocked the phone away.
Jamal didn’t think. He reacted.
He stepped forward.
“Yo! What the f*ck?!”
One of the officers turned. “Back up.”
“He didn’t do anything! I just saw you swing on him—”
“BACK UP!”
A hand moved toward a holster.
Jamal’s body went electric—every muscle, every bone, every atom screaming with ancestral warning.
Don’t.
Don’t be the headline.
Don’t be the next airbrushed T-shirt in a candlelight vigil.
He backed up slowly, hands in the air.
But the boy still went down. Hard. A crack in the brick from the impact of his skull.
Blood pooled beneath his curls.
People screamed. Someone ran. Someone froze.
Jamal turned and walked away.
He didn’t run. He walked.
Slow. Controlled. Like he might combust if he moved too fast.
He reached a church stoop a few blocks away and sat hard.
His hands were shaking again.
Not from fear. From fury.
“I almost died today,” he said aloud to the brick wall beside him. “And now that boy might, too.”
He pulled out his phone.
Opened his Notes app.
Typed three words:
We were robbed.
Then he hit return.
Typed again.
They burned it all.
Another line.
They call it progress.
His fingers flew now—rants, receipts, and pain turned poetry. Not for school. Not for grades. Not for likes. Just to keep from exploding.
He wrote until the sun sank behind the rooftops and the porch light at his grandma’s house flicked on like a signal flare.
The screen door creaked like it didn’t want to open.
Jamal stepped inside slowly, his hoodie streaked with sweat, face harder than when he left. The blood had dried into a dark crust above his brow.
He didn’t say anything.
Neither did Tasha, who stood frozen in the kitchen, hands braced against the sink, her back to him. The light from the fridge cast her shadow long across the tile. She didn’t turn. Just said softly, “You good?”
He answered with silence.
Eloise sat in the living room, arms folded, robe pulled tight like armor. The lamp beside her flickered faintly, casting her features in lines of gold and shadow. Her eyes tracked him as he entered.
He dropped into the chair across from her.
For a few seconds, they just looked at each other. Generations apart. Identical fire in their eyes.
“I saw a boy get his head cracked open,” Jamal said flatly. “Today. Cops.”
Eloise nodded once. Lord Bless it! I’m sorry baby.
“Remind you of anything?” he asked.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Too many things.”
“I almost jumped in. Almost swung. He looked like I did this morning. They didn’t even say his name.”
She inhaled slowly. “They never do.”
He studied her face.
“Why do we have to be so damn careful all the time?”
“Because this country was built off our backs but never meant for our rest.”
Silence.
He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a torn flyer—the real estate ad from the condo window.
“‘Diverse legacy.’ That’s what it said. On the same block y’all told me we used to own.”
Eloise blinked, then gave a small, bitter laugh. “Oh, now they sayin’ Diverse legacy’ sells condos?”
He nodded.
“They sell what they stole. Repackaged. Rebranded. Sanitized.”
She leaned forward.
“That’s always been the hustle. We plant the garden, they sell the fruit at Whole Foods.”
Jamal almost smiled.
“I started writing,” he said. “Notes. About what you said. The stories. The land. The burning. All of it.”
She looked at him carefully.
“And what you plan to do with that?”
“I don’t know yet. But it’s better than punching cops.”
Eloise leaned back. “You know your great-granddaddy, W.L. Thompson, used to write too. He kept a journal they never found. Said it was safer than shouting. Said words could carry things that bodies couldn’t.”
Jamal nodded slowly.
“I’m tired of just surviving.”
Eloise closed her eyes. “So was he.”
She opened them again, leaned forward, and tapped the center of her chest.
“What you got in you… all that fury… that ain’t a curse. That’s your inheritance. The same fire that made us fight to read. Fight to vote. Fight to buy land when banks laughed in our faces.”
Jamal sat very still.
“That fire’s our legacy,” she said. “But legacy ain’t just pain. It’s power. If you learn to shape it.”
They both looked down at the table, where the burned deed still sat between them like a holy relic.
From the hallway, Tasha stepped into the light. She didn’t speak. Just sat at the table and reached out, slowly, placing her hand over the corner of the paper.
No one pulled away.
For the first time in years, three hands—one old, one cracked, one shaking—rested on the same piece of their story.
The silence was sacred.
No one apologized.
No one had to.
They finally knew what they were holding.




____________________________________________________

𝘼𝘽𝙊𝙐𝙏 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝙐𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙍:
𝙰 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙽𝚎𝚠 𝚈𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝙲𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝙸 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝙼𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎, 𝙽𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚊, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝙽𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚞𝚛𝚋𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚡 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚌 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚂𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑.
𝙼𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝐈𝐓 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐜𝐲. 𝙰𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝙸𝚃 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚛, 𝙸 𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚣𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚡 𝚜𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍; 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝙲𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎𝟹𝟼𝟶 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙻𝚎𝚝 𝙼𝚎 𝚁𝚞𝚗, 𝙸 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚜.
𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕-𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘-𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 (𝐰𝐰𝐰.𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧.𝐜𝐨𝐦) 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚌𝚘-𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎, 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕-𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.
𝙸 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚌, 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝑹𝒂𝒚𝑹𝒂𝒚𝑭 𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕.


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𝙇𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙣 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙍𝙖𝙮’𝙨 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 —𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙩— 𝙖𝙩 https://www.differencedriven.com.

𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀 𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐍: 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐄’𝐒 𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃

𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙰𝚁𝙲 𝚂𝙾 𝙵𝙰𝚁: 𝙸𝙳𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙸𝚃𝚈 & 𝙸𝚃𝚂 𝙲𝙾𝚂𝚃𝚂
Over the past two posts, we tracked how 𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗲𝘀 get manufactured, and what they cost, in the most concrete terms: first in dollars and circulation, then in human life.

First, 𝗦𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗮: a man-made figure so heavily circulated and marketed that he has become a cultural emblem, an identity that’s 100% fabricated yet omnipresent. A capitalist cherry on top, it’s also wonderfully monetized: being one of the world’s most recognized faces sells.

Then 𝗛𝗲𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘄𝗮𝘆: one of a few writers canonized during his lifetime – in large part because he built a scandalous public self so successfully that what’s behind it steadily eroded. Ego liquified, until the final collapse: that of the lived self into the performed persona. An extreme case of identity as a lifelong publicity campaign: a lifelong performance with real consequences.




𝙲𝚁𝙾𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙶: 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙴𝙻𝙵 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙲𝚄𝚁𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃
Today, we close that arc with 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐭 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐧, and he flips the premise by offering us an augmented vision, an interpretation of self as a forever-moving point on a 𝘶𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦-al continiium. In "𝑪𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑩𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒍𝒚𝒏 𝑭𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒚," identity is detached from the trivial, limited & limiting, exchange-based, profit-oriented and transactional. It isn’t a product or a persona as seen in Santa & Hemingway. In Whitman’s electric cosmos, the ‘self’ essentially ceases to exist as an internalized, ‘costume’ notion, and identity becomes an extension of what we are in our meat-suits — a passage into the realm of transcendental and metaphysical.

The core motion of "𝑪𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑩𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒍𝒚𝒏 𝑭𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒚" is that it is not just a poem about a place, but a meditation on shared passage. Whitman does not position himself as a fixed observer; he casts himself as a passenger, one among many, moving through the same current of time as past and future strangers alike. The “you” he addresses is not metaphorical. It is literal, delayed, inevitable. We are separated by years, histories, bodies, languages, yet bound by the same transit. We are all passengers on Earth.

From this angle, identity is no longer a sealed unit, nor a performance staged for recognition. It becomes relational, porous, in motion — a temporary configuration inside a larger, continuous human stream. The shift is from the one to the many, from the ego to the whole: an expanded angle where we view ourselves not as separate, but as part of something larger. The individual does not vanish; it extends, held within a living continuity where millions have stood before, and millions will come after.

To see oneself this way echoes existential philosophy: the 𝗺𝘆𝘁𝗵 𝗼𝗳 𝗦𝗶𝘀𝘆𝗽𝗵𝘂𝘀, where stone is always getting pushed to the top of the hill only to fall back down. Peace comes from accepting participation in the motion rather than expecting a final resolution. Applied to identity, the self becomes an ongoing passage: formed, shed, and re-formed in time. Coherence comes less from arrival than from consenting to the movement.

And this is precisely where Whitman reconnects us to 𝑹𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝑬𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉, 𝑶𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝑺𝒌𝒚 as well.



𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝙵𝙴𝚁𝚁𝚈 𝚃𝙾 𝚁𝙾𝙰𝙳: 𝚁𝙴𝙾𝚂 𝙸𝙽 𝙼𝙾𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽
𝗦𝗸𝘆 𝗠𝗮𝗻 —the novel’s protagonist— is, quite literally, a 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙣 𝙀𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙝. He moves through landscapes, encounters, identities, belief-systems, and inherited narratives as crossings. Like Whitman’s 𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆, the 𝗿𝗼𝗮𝗱 in 𝑹𝑬𝑶𝑺 means travel rather than arrival. It is about shared motion through time, about what happens when a character loosens their grip on a fixed self and allows experience —people, strangers, histories— to pass through versus be filtered, categorized, resisted.

By learning to let go, shed societally & self-inflicted masks and roles —and by moving beyond presumptive, tunnel-vision categorical thinking— characters widen their frame of perception not just inward & toward the self, but also outward. In doing so, they gain a fundamentally deeper empathy, grounded in this newly broadened, more open & selfless (de-ego-fied) view of others —close ones and strangers alike— and the world. A world now recognized as an interconnected and infinite matrix, in which they are an integral particle: existing within a specific timeframe, yet simultaneously traversing beyond the concept of time.

Whitman supplies the positive ontology of this movement. Where identity elsewhere collapses into mask or spectacle, he shows what happens when ego dissolves without annihilation — when dividers fall and the self does not disappear, but joins the current. Identity becomes not something to defend or perform, but something to participate in: a temporary formation inside a shared, universal human experience. A collective phenomenon, if you will.



𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚃𝙰𝙺𝙴𝙰𝚆𝙰𝚈: 𝚆𝙴 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝙿𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁𝚂
In this sense, "𝑪𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑩𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒍𝒚𝒏 𝑭𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒚" is a philosophical rehearsal for the same gesture 𝑹𝑬𝑶𝑺 keeps returning to:
the courage to stop anchoring the self to rigid borders, and instead accept what
Whitman already knew—
𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵.


𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩’𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙡 𝙘𝙞𝙧𝙘𝙡𝙚: identity sold, identity performed, identity released into the common current.

Available on Amazon

Round Earth, Open Sky

Kirpal Gordon

A mytho-poetic road novel through desert and dream—Sky Man, Moses, and a journey that keeps opening into stranger terrain.

View on Amazon →

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𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐖𝐀𝐘: 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑢𝑛 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑛'𝑡 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦.
— 𝑬𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑯𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒘𝒂𝒚, 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒖𝒏 𝑨𝒍𝒔𝒐 𝑹𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒔 

Today, we want to continue our conversation on 𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝘁𝘆 as an artificial construct that we change & continuously reshape —like children mold their playdough— except the stakes are much higher, and the setting is no longer a playground but a human life. Being engineers of human souls, litterateurs similarly mold their characters, carefully weaving intricate threads into their psyches and moral frameworks. Quite often, these fictional personas are extensions of authors’ own personalities — surrogates nested in realities augmenting strengths and polishing weaknesses of their creator.

Among the shelves of a vast global library, one author’s bibliography stands out in particular because it runs on a deeply autobiographical engine. 𝗘𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗛𝗲𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘄𝗮𝘆 wrote countless self-portraits — ego and personal philosophies taking central stage in his prose and the characters who inhabit it, accumulating into an unwritten code of masculinity. Rising above all, however, was his main project: an authored public self on the borderline of myth and fact. A lifelong identity project, Hemingway’s public-facing ego prototype fused with his archetypal protagonist into a widely exported “real man” template.

There is a timely reason to revisit this file: 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒖𝒏 𝑨𝒍𝒔𝒐 𝑹𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒔 turns 𝟭𝟬𝟬 in 2026. Often seen as the turning point when Hemingway’s clipped, hard‑boiled style gained momentum and became tied to his name, this is the book that launched and cemented the “Hemingway” legend. That same year, Hemingway signed with 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗲𝘀 𝗦𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗯𝗻𝗲𝗿’𝘀 𝗦𝗼𝗻𝘀, the publishing house that would define the course of his career. As Lesley Blume, author of a 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘠𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴–bestselling book on the novel and its history, observes, “[Hemingway] was a two‑for‑one deal. The persona was crucial to launching him as a writer. They planted stories about him with gossip columnists; he was so different from other writers at the time.” (𝘓𝘪𝘵𝘏𝘶𝘣, 2021)

So, a star is born. Several condition subsequent clauses with footnotes attached to the birth certificate. 

𝘐𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘏𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘹𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩 (𝘓𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯, 𝘔𝘢𝘺 𝟣𝟫𝟦𝟦)

𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 (𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐗𝐓)
What else could possibly enter the equation to make you, once and for all, solidify the confines of who you are and what you 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 become — and withdraw a possibility of any further negotiation or amendment of contract conditions? Behold: public reception. Strengthen it: positive, even glorifying public reception. Let it peak: you become a cultural icon and a symbol of an era.

Hemingway’s postwar voice —disillusioned, cold-eyed, cynically honest, stringently factual while void emotionally— matched the equally hard-boiled ‘l𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻’ in the wake of 𝗪𝗪𝗜. The public was hungry for a figure who could embody their de-romanticized reality. And Hemingway arrived with more than a voice, but a lifestyle plus hobbies and interests graph that read like a plot in itself: war service, plane crashes, hunting, boxing, bullfights, marriages, drinking. The myth validated the writing; the writing validated the myth.



𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐄
Across his seven major novels, the protagonist in each is argued to represent the author himself. Each variation is a new mirror angled slightly differently, but all insist on a particular moral silhouette: the self-sufficient male pulled into conflict, first armored, then forced (often violently) into an awareness of his own vulnerability and a crisis of self-identification.

This is where Hemingway turns from author into icon-builder: he doesn’t just write people; he writes a code. We see private ethics elevated to public doctrine, where ‘righteous’ masculinity becomes a unit of measure, a moral compass. The rulebook is straight and perhaps as contained as the behaviors it ascribes: stoicism and restraint above all; prefer action to speech; keep feelings contained; endure the ordeal with constraint; resist impulsivity; remain loyal to inner standards.

The famous toughness, however, isn’t just a put-on show, but a discipline. It is an attempt to raise the emotional temperature toward universal 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩 by refusing sentimentality, compressing the unbearable into understatement, and turning empathy inward until it becomes a vibration beneath the surface of “facts.” The most evident proof of this is the maestro’s distinctive compressed language style, officially known as “𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗱-𝗯𝗼𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗱.”

Masculinity Hemingway-kind, undeniably, tilts into 𝗺𝗮𝗰𝗵𝗶𝘀𝗺𝗼. And again, we see self & written, portrayed and projected blend. Ernest himself, of course, had an ambition to look like a macho: a real man, a hero-lover, an athlete, a conqueror of women, heights, and horses.

If identity is a construct, Hemingway’s protagonists are identity at its most performative: the self staged as a demonstration. Following the same logic, the man himself is a shining example of a trendy term these days: 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝗰𝘂𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆.



𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐍 𝐏𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐋
A Ken on display, the result is a self-labyrinth made of pride, fear, longing, and the desperate need for the world to validate the mask.

Now, with guidelines so ironclad, the implications of a breach can be fatal. Restrictions make it impossible to move, errors are seen as a moral collapse, and any force majeure risks a point of no return. Proof? At the 𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝟲𝟮, Hemingway put a double-barreled shotgun to the sky and pressed the trigger.

Pressure —both self-inflicted and now extended into the public eye, with all the media coverage the author was attracting— raised the bar too high. With unexpected external factors coming into play (numerous head injuries throughout life; rapid deterioration of physical health towards the end; mania, paranoia, and PTSD), the pedestal that the public put him on proved to be a rather unstable foundation — a trap rather than a throne, especially in the context of a fragile ego.



'𝑯𝑬𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑾𝑨𝒀 𝑪𝑶𝑫𝑬' 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃: 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐄𝐆𝐎 𝐎𝐍 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘, 𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎’𝐒 𝐁𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐂𝐄?
Maybe that’s why “𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙃𝙚𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙙𝙚” reads less like armor and more like a cage. An artificial identity can be all-consuming: what begins as protection slowly hardens into captivity. And for a macho image —by definition— display of weakness is not just an abnormality but a sign of embarrassment.

Or maybe 𝑯𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒘𝒂𝒚’𝒔 𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓 is Hemingway — the Hemingway he invented and revised across books: modern knight, man of action, chivalric code-bearer, stoic believer in discipline, volcano disguised as stone.

...

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐘𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐋: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅
And this is where 𝑹𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝑬𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉, 𝑶𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝑺𝒌𝒚 slides into the frame — not as a “related title” plug, but as a sister inquiry. 𝑹𝑬𝑶𝑺 is also an 𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹, except the stage is not Paris cafés and prizefights, but the desert, the road, the charged theatre of spiritual narration. Its characters keep bumping into a brutally modern question: who are you when you stop performing the version of yourself that kept you safe? Hemingway builds a “real man” and then must live inside the costume; 𝑹𝑬𝑶𝑺 watches people inherit costumes —spiritual, cultural, romantic, even salvific— and then begins the slow, frightening work of taking them off. Not to become “authentic” in some glossy self-help sense, but to face the emptiness underneath the costume without rushing to refill it with another script.

In that way, 𝑹𝑬𝑶𝑺 reads like a counter-mechanism to the Hemingway machine: it doesn’t romanticize the code; it interrogates the need for codes at all. The book’s identity arc isn’t “become harder,” but 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵: about the stories you tell to survive, the aliases you wear to be loved, the myths you adopt to feel chosen. And if Hemingway’s public self is a masterpiece of myth-manufacture —knight, hunter, stoic— 𝑹𝑬𝑶𝑺 asks the darker follow-up: 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘺𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘭? When the “character” you’ve perfected becomes the very thing that keeps you from living?

Available on Amazon

Round Earth, Open Sky

Kirpal Gordon

A mytho-poetic road novel through desert and dream—Sky Man, Moses, and a journey that keeps opening into stranger terrain.

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MORE RESPONSES FROM POETS ON RENEE GOOD

I’m Not Mad At You (For Good) By Jackie Henrion 1/7/26

My mother has been dead

Without shroud from grace

Or other holy ghosts

Her epitaph reads captive

Involuntary abjection

Of genetics and entrainment

Creative attempts not

Withstanding, not worth standing

Intellectual bandwidth stunted

By so many years and fears

Stuck in the garden’s enclosure

She could only offer coupling

Too young the sadness of need

Unwanted implantation exchanged

Like opportunity

Without shield

Yet I stand with gratitude

For mud, pulchritude, and effluent

Fed blossom and flight

And ultimately—the Good fight