I see a woman on the stoop sipping her Bacardi real slow. She points to the blood in the street still fresh from the boys swinging baseball bats. Flashing their switchblades. She says, the dead donβt want nothing from us, but the living, shit, motherfucker will take and take until thereβs nothing left. My mother lights a cigarette and it plumes over her eyes. One summer, a news anchor describes a a massacre in a place called Wonderland so depraved, so grizzly, it reminds them of the Sharon Tate murders. Tβ¦
Felicia C. Sullivan