Black As…
Dad is black
Black as tar
And then some more
He’s not a slave
But who can tell for sure
Cause he’s black
Sometimes blacker
Than a moonless night
our mission
We are a feminist press committed to publishing socially engaged literature with an emphasis on the voices of people of color, people with disabilities, and other historically silenced and culturally marginalized voices.
"Writing can be a lifeline, especially when your existence has been denied, especially when you have been left on the margins, especially when your life and process of growth have been subject to attempts at strangulation."
Micere Githae Mugo
Apologies
“That’s seven. And eight,” I said. “Two in a row!” “The next stop is a few miles,” my father said. I was no longer a child, but I felt like one on that drive.
“Proust Questionnaire”, “River Ethiope” & “Foster”
Alive again, I knew I wanted to begin with touch, my body’s torso, stroke without terror, as I walk towards his gramophone, to the wall hanging, Nina Simone singing at the background, of a place called “more”, and this time I didn’t have to swim.
Bad Faith
In the stranger’s basement bedroom, I awoke, facing a staircase that had pale blue lights
