Matriarchal hope glimmers, glorious saucepans saved for, passed down. Smashed by vicious rape. ‘I do not nourish, I do not even turn over, not even when he leaves, this be my death, where I quietly finger the softness of my tongue’ (37).
Matriarchal hope glimmers, glorious saucepans saved for, passed down. Smashed by vicious rape. ‘I do not nourish, I do not even turn over, not even when he leaves, this be my death, where I quietly finger the softness of my tongue’ (37).