No more than dancer from dance, art from life, can you tell the placemat from the supper.

They were African American women who were on fire, and most of the world craved their heat.

It’s not about a cat. My relationship with my cat was civil. She didn’t like people; she only liked me.

My phone goes off. It’s a text. The first response to my ad today: “Nice pic. Got a face?”

A discussion with Jacqueline Bishop, the winner of the 2016 nonfiction Bocas Prize, about art, feminism, and the state of Caribbean literature.

"...being a slut meant being promiscuous, and being promiscuous meant being desirable, and being desirable meant being powerful."

H O H it says in large primitive letters. He’s over here? Hates our hospital?

There were no bar codes and no sticky tags, just a continuous flow, from the rain to the earth to a peasant woman to the market to us.

It stretched its body from the roof of the cage to kiss her . . .