Gritty, raw, liberated, and twisted into lines of beauty, Emma Bolden’s melancholic realizations mostly relate to her body and her hysterectomy. With multiple collections and an assortment of works in publication, it is no surprise that Bolden makes her way as the associate editor-in-chief at Tupelo Quarterly.
The day was its own warning. I was thinking of his head
on a plate in my lap. I was thinking of its soft loops of curls,
fine as the hair punched into plastic doll skulls. I felt strange
& electric & so did the sky, & when I looked out
of the window, it looked back with green. There were clouds
& clouds’ low stomachs lined silver. There was a room
in which I stood alone. When the squall line quickened, the room became aching. The room became wool. No god was there.
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