the FEROCITY

I can’t tell if I’m riding away from my mother’s ghost or toward her memory. Of course I hear her. I couldn’t stop if I tried. It’s just that she’s speaking in a language the wind won’t translate.

It’s my last week in Berlin. I pedal down Martin Luther Strasse. In 1530, the street’s namesake wrote “They are trying to make me into a fixed star. I am an irregular planet.” In Ancient Greek, the word “planet” means “to wander.”

My latest for Ebony.