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 time.Repent of what?the tired commuters ask,their virtue in their briefcasesas they head towards Grand Centraland the long rideto what is no longer . . . . 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 manroll by in regal successful cars:the chrome polished,tires with the treads still thickand . . . . Continue Reading »

There is nothing left to say nowand nothing left to do the tearswill not come to the eyes of the childwho has kissed her mother and watchedthe methodical men bind her with tapethe childwho has heard her mother’s last wordsbefore the deathin the small Brooklyn housewith her niece and her . . . . Continue Reading »