Yona Harvey lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, with her husband and two children.
Smiling white teeth, television host pleased with her face, her there-you-have-it filling the screen. One last shot of the elegant restaurant poised a few miles across town, its proud- bellied chef & owner, spit-polished silver, glasses clear enough to ring. Goodbye to the women who blessed the blue crabs with hymns, who undressed the trapped […]
White girls die first. Which means I’m still alive, but breathless & on the run in the brain’s maze of scrutiny. How I stumble in the memory of Ohio, old names & faces given me: Pecola, Dorcas, Violet, Nel, First Corinthians. Reinvention is my birthright. With each step I am altered: mother, daughter, river, sun. […]
Hunched in a thimble, I wept. Mercy. Once blotted out trees. Well. Made some second-guess me. Speak. Ought not act so ugly. Said— Ought not act so ugly. Hunched in a thimble, I wept. Yes, yes. Won’t make no apologies. Naw, Sir. Who will take on this burden? Ought not walk alone. Said— Ought not […]
Yona Harvey talks about reading her poems aloud when she writes.