A poem by Sarah James
The Un-Niceness of Nice Caved four weeks into the hills with her, her son, his woman, beans barely boiled, steak sizzled, skins singed; juiced red like the sun. I scooped dust from melons, swept flesh from floors, rectangled beds, while the sun shook off the sweet shade of trees; rained insects and figs. One day free a week, I was dropped in the city: … Continue reading A poem by Sarah James