Susan Rich
A Poem for Will, Baking
Each night he stands before The kitchen island, begins again From scratch: chocolate, cinnamon, nutmeg, He beats, he folds; Keeps faith in what happens When you combine known quantities, Bake twelve minutes at a
For Sale
Xhosa women in clothes too light For the weather have brought wild flowers And sit sloped along the Claremont road. I see her through rolled windows, Watch her watch me to decide if I’ll
Lost By Way of Tchin-Tabarden
Republic of Niger Nomads are said to know their way by an exact spot in the sky, The touch of sand to their fingers, granules on the tongue. But sometimes a system breaks down.