Coming Up Hot Quotes

“These diamonds in your face will chain you to the omnipotence of love. You will become a strange beast. The light that once dazzled your lover will leave him terrified of his desire for you.   She dances for me and I dance for her. We”
― Peekash Press, Coming Up Hot: Eight New Poets from the Caribbean

“The Abortionist’s Daughter Declares Her Love Here is the church. These are the doors that open to the sea. My grandmother once knelt here, awed, a special guest to an exorcism.   It is nothing like the movies would have you think, she told me, and I believed her.   They have called me many things between these aisles, she told me, and I believed her.   That is the trouble with our trade, she said. When men aspire to terrible jobs, we offer them hushed respect, the blushing necks of virgins.   Women wearing the same gloves, sorting the same straight-backed pins between the prayers of their teeth, are taught to deserve nothing more than an acreage of sorrow.   Why”
― Peekash Press, Coming Up Hot: Eight New Poets from the Caribbean

“FISHERMAN’S NET The dreadlocks from Little Bay did not worry about worry. Chilled by the sea breeze, icy beer and a spliff, I could tell as he turned to the music, he was irie with the rhythm of the rising tide. I selected a yellow-tail snapper from his catch. “Come home and cook for you,” he smiled, flashing a gold-capped tooth. I laughed that throaty unnerving laugh, but he never flinched. Can’t be sure of the sequence; the music lapped us into knee-high grass, and the sea spray settled like the skin round my nipples, and thighs knotted like mangrove roots giving in to the deep, held by the strength of his arms and the cry of the snapper, caught.”
― Peekash Press, Coming Up Hot: Eight New Poets from the Caribbean

“I am not your mother. “No one in this world can love that girl like her mother,” they told me, the day I tore out my hair to hold you. My hair, the raft lashed with pitch darts that kept you. My hair, the mantle against less honourable creatures who blow kisses with crusted lips. They measure you for marvelous coffins. My dead hair was never your shroud.   My hair is the hundred thousand wires of my love and it holds you safe. In its jungle, you are queen. In it, you learned that ink and blood and salt, these three, grow the truest trees.   I”
― Peekash Press, Coming Up Hot: Eight New Poets from the Caribbean