But for this breath
Manya Dotson Manya Dotson

But for this breath

This morning smells like back to school.

The light has tilted,

gilding the sides of school buses

until they glow—brilliant

against a sky that has

rinsed itself a deeper blue overnight.

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What is that feeling?
Manya Dotson Manya Dotson

What is that feeling?

What if there was a deck of cards that was part poetry, part glossary—widely specific and also universal? Something that can help name, discern, discover relational dynamics.

I’m working on one.

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