Sports. Politics. Culture. UNFILTERED.


The humidity peels like acetylene.

On the slanted light, blue herons tiptoe

on alligators. My mother squeezes

pulp from a bowl of new oranges.

Telling small lies in the fungibles.  

She recalls now the tangled dance of

flyer and singer, struggling for a path

forward. Followed by the dark acts

of contrition behind closed doors.

Walls rising to collect the survivors.

Sanctified by coming-through,

They sit now in a room swallowed

by Florida heat. The dining table still

beckons for seven hands. My mother

passes the bowl around and says,

β€œThe Honeybelles are the best this year,

no doubt about it. Here, take one.”