POetry and Short fiction

It is December 2018, my sister and I are in a city we’ve only heard of from stories. Jerusalem, we are walking through the marketplace in the Old City, as shiny things are being packed up we are surrounded by a soft clatter, as lights dim down and everyone slows down, to stop for the day

intersectional feminist hands me a copy of how to talk about race
recites a land acknowledgment
to honor the native tribes
who have been displaced
to make space for the organic açaí bar we frequent

She was a real author who had published real books and I was a fake author that only wrote books my mama and papa would buy. I beg to differ. My papa ravaged by dementia had lost his ability to read and my mama whose sole purpose in life now revolved around caring for him, or talking about caring for him, had lost the desire.

Additional vocabulary could mean
The fog spilled in
...