It takes more than good intentions to transform the South. It takes money.
What the hell is a Scalawag?
This piece was originally published in May of 2018. This Black history month, we're sharing it again as a touching complement to our coverage of abortion access.
Thank you for your cooperation The soft bow of your heel
The air pushed open by your leg span Do you remember
when we met How no drugs were administered
How the hands that opened you were cold
and soiled How the unsurgical steel slid
you open easy as an envelope Splay
and I get along just fine Feel
the wind warp through you
keyhole to chimney
You cow into
her layers Slumps
down the table resenting
proximity The hands are still
ice and white melting into her folds
Her trickle-down DNA blotting the hissing
sheet The flinch in her breast She would have
swallowed the hand mirror to avoid me She turns
herself over and presses the hard cotton gown into her
gums She turns herself over to spread and capture To
make certain the unsick animal stays put between her thighs