by Carol Casey The August sun has almost spun the straw to gold in the large stack behind the barn. We take turns sliding down its side, whooping in the earthy smell, the scratchy stalks tickling. Not sure why I go down backward, push off so hard. I land with a thump on almost…
By Shandrease Cushionberry My father was a shadowy Moreno until the day of his funeral. He was what I would call a black Dominican. My mother is a black woman. I am her only child, her little black girl. “Te quiero mi negrita,” she sometimes says to me. And I…
