A noisy one she is, her mom was a shill in the USSR, her voice follows me everywhere, a shrill shill she was, pushy, even  here in my cabin on the good ship Isabelle out of Stockholm bound for Riga, her voice, ‘the buffet is open,’ ‘lottery tickets are still available,’ haunts me, this cabin womb-like tomb-like, imagine crossing the seas from Senegal in the hold of the ‘Alabama’, this cabin might… Read More