Elizabeth Duran

Jesus is coming repent Ye!reads the scrawled signof this man who is not John the Baptistbut who is in his own waythe handwriting on the wallof this grim . . . . Continue Reading »

The white man has laid down his burdenin the middle of Broadwayand under the exhausted plane treesblack men lie like ragson the benches where onceold white ladies chirped in a rowwatching industrialized . . . . Continue Reading »

There is nothing left to say now and nothing left to do the tears will not come to the eyes of the child who has kissed her mother and watched the methodical men bind her with tape the child who has heard her mother’s last words before the death in the small Brooklyn house with her niece and her . . . . Continue Reading »