Brown GirlsBy Neha Maqsood  Brown girls have hair of various
Persuasions – straight, silky, curly, frizzy, greasy upper lip, spiky under-arm, pubic black
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Where the Butterfly RoamsBy Anna Cates Editors' Note: This poem was previously published in Scyrptic.  in silent meetings
purveyors of arcane magic sometimes fathomed there is no escape from rebirth, only death Black Tar ReflectionBy Naomi Gibson  I went looking for her after she died, my mother. She’d always told me if I needed her I could find her. That the grave was nothing but a door, or a long-distance phone call. As Dad’s health declined and his memory got worse, I found myself looking harder. Visiting all the places she had loved: antiques shops with broken clocks and portraits of the long forgotten. National parks with paths once flattened by her walking boots. I’d shout her name into the squatting fog.
Mud WantBy Mari Pack Editors' Note: This poem appears in Mari Pack's new chapbook, The Description of a New World (Dancing Girl Press). It was also the subject of this poetry film we published last year.  The word gharam
in Arabic: a love that burrows, attaches, dies inside. A love that can ruin, will ruin. I will tear this desire out by the root. Caking mud on a face, the mask of being honest. I’m finally being honest. It’s neti, neti not you — but an echo. At least not yet. In Which I Refuse to Write a Poem on What Should Have Been Your Sixth Birthday By Beth Gordon  I sleep with grief serum in my stomach
a reverse feeding tube dispensing drops like sweetened arsenic or hungry love drops on suburban sidewalks drops in eyes of mud-worn green and angry blue drops mixed with thistle paint swirled into half-blooming forsythia drops into Easter egg Nappy HairBy Marie Yvette  Coily, kinky, thick, or coarse
often styled with no remorse. Interesting to the eyes is said, to the filaments that grace my head. Into the WavesBy Ryo Shaw  When was it? When did the thought, the concept first enter your head? It wasn’t a special moment, you remember. You walked down your twisting drive way in orange shorts, your mother not far ahead. Your six year old brain realized it all at once. It felt like an icy hand that would push you, head first into a pool seven years later. That hand, you think, never really let go. In fact you were quite taken with it. Lured, by that sweet smelly summer day, you have followed it for what feels like as long as you can remember (That’s the funny thing about childhood memories isn’t it? Everything could be the first thing you remember if you forget hard enough).
We Yearn This watercolor painting measures 22"x30" and contains touches of gel pen, felt-tip marker, and acrylic. Interested in purchasing it? Contact the artist.
When I AwakeBy Anna Cates  from dark dreams in a dead woods
to fading stars burning holes through the night singing diasporas of hope and taste sweet sunlight rising in the east and like a snail peek outside my confinement . . . The Nice Guy Who Talks To Himself In Your DMsBy Ghia Vitale  Photo Credit: Pxhere.com Hey.
Hey. Hey. Hey. Hello… ? What’s up? Anyone home? You’re cute. I bet guys don’t tell you that often. |