“I’m the poet from the Writers In The Schools program. Can you tell me what room I’m supposed to be in?” I ask a black woman with a short platinum-blonde afro behind a desk.
Getting on this bus is not easy, dragging the just three year old Timothy dressed up in a pair of my high heels, his sister Alexandra’s outgrown dress (which she never wore anyway – she’ll only wear designer jeans), and his grandmother’s old corset on top.
I put my third cup of coffee in the microwave, hoping the fuse won’t blow again. I’m not dressed, haven’t taken a shower.
For a moment he was still inside her, turgid there and quivering. Then as he began to move, in the sudden helpless orgasm, there awoke in her new strange thrills rippling inside her. Rippling . . . like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite and melting her all molten inside