Tag Archives: Aime Nezhukumatatil

A Celebration of Prosody – The Swoops of Ross Gay’s Breathless Sentences and a Meditation on Joy

And yet, and yet, when the cold makes brittle what remains—the spent okra stalk, the few pepper plants that hang on through the first two frosts, these little gold tomatoes—when it withers even the rogue amaranth, its tousled mane bent and defeated, when the silver maple out front has ceased whispering, and when the bullfrogs […]