It Wasn't Roaring, It Was Weeping: Interpreting the Language of Our Fathers Without Repeating Their Stories

by Lisa-Jo Baker

Those hands are a map of veins as blue as the South African sky, pockmarked by a Southern-Cross galaxy of age spots and freckles and faith after years of folding them in prayer.

the cry of a beloved country that carries the shame of the most institutionally racist scars since Nazi Germany.

the dip and curve of our hips. Instead, we are in counseling while still waking up next to the person with morning breath and irritating habits and grudges that spoon us. The banal

We smile the same and we weep the same.