daddy’s eyes. barely did they blink. Mandela had walked out daddy? and onto our boxed-in screen. the night before, daddy told me the story of Mandela. imprisoned for years—maybe three times my age. “apartheid” i struggled with the word, at least how to say it. but “apart” stuck with me. asking: daddy, is it like here in ft. myers, florida? i woke up with questions still. how? how come? but my mind and i grew still. and my eyes wide. wider than in my nearly nine lives watching daddy watch him1
vast, miniscule—tears
birthing asphyxiation
or tilling our breaths
whatever suspends, survives
is what is passed—soul to soul
Dana Tenille Weekes is a curious creature of voice and its relationship to everything humans do or don't do. She weaves the worlds of politics, policy, and law and is also embracing her newly found voice in poetry. She is the daughter of Bajan immigrants and is the first in her family to be born in the United States.
