The years to come will inaugurate the search for a type of friendship in art, of which John Berger is, for now, a last great example.
I look like I don’t belong here. And I don’t want to belong here. I live in a nursing home with no clear exit plan.
When you cut a robot, does it not bleed? Well, actually, it doesn’t.
Here are two poems Ifeanyi published in Green House. They are playful and serious, languid and taut.
I knew my next sentence would define me forever in their minds. Was their leader a racist? I had not in my twenty-three years on the planet ever been confronted with the reality of that flag.