or. colds sweat in brush winter, merry burnt foliage, quickening dims, recursive faces in the shadows of kerosene lamps. resting dusted feet. god, I’ve dreamt myself dark a riplet of long whiptides a lingering cloud dragged across lingering eyes still better? than lying sideways face drooping till it slides off the bone to the dirt. than ...
In a way, my photography is my version of painting using light as my brush and the camera as my canvas. Can you walk us through your creative process, from concept to final shot? I believe my inspirations come from the almighty God. I usually have a theme or emotion I want to capture, often inspired by culture, scripture, or personal experiences.
Your eyes return to the sun, now a transparent yellow circle sinking behind fine clouds – beyond fine clouds. The sky is a brush of silvery lines, grey, and water diluted citrus orange. The sun is returning home now. And you wonder if things will ever be okay before you return home. The month will come to a fold in two days’ time. Sunday ...
We watched you brush out chunks of your accent every morning, brushing your tongue until pieces of last night’s dinner creeped out of your throat, we blamed your mother for this one, she should have told you that an exposed buttock was the same as a fucked one—Akara and Moin-moin all na beans, and they’ll all smell the same when shat.
What she couldn’t corral beneath a dress or brush back into even barrettes, she sent to Adam. We exchange glances, laugh with our eyes. She doesn’t get it and how could she…? I am eight and can only see her for her gender. “Woman” meaning “loneliness is the animal I know best”. She’s never been a girl; never sent beneath the yoke.