Flypaper Poetry Issue III

Page 1

FlyPaper Poetry

Issue III March 2018


TABLE OF CONTENTS: Ephraim Nehemiah [Featured Poet]

Roscoe Burnems

August 12th, 2016

The Big Chop

when they say

Stephanie Okonkwo

Do You Love Baltimore?

Too Little, Too Late

HEAVEN

FOR US WHO DRINK POISON

Monica Stevens-Kirby

LIES I TELL MYSELF AFTER ANOTHER VISITATION HEARING

My Therapist Was a Rabid Raccoon

ON LEARNING HOW TO LOVE

I ASKED MY MAMA WHAT SHE WANTED FOR HER 52ND BIRTHDAY AND SHE SAID A POEM

In 101, I Was Advised Not to Write This Way

Tyne Sansom Springsteen

Laura Hoffman

Fragments of a Prison Vault

Geoff Anderson

Healing

Ornithology License

James Croal Jackson

I FORGOT I WAS DRINKING

THE EMPLOYMENT OF DREAMERS

Viannah E. Duncan

Right wrist

Gabrielle Caggiano

Lies and Other Agents of Fate



FEATURED POET:


Ephraim Nehemiah is a writer, performer, and educator based in Northeast Ohio— using art as resistance, a tool for liberation, and a method of healing. Since 2015 Ephraim has been a two-time Southern Fried Poetry Slam finalist, Rustbelt Poetry Slam finalist, placed top 20 at the Individual World Poetry Slam and selected to 5 national performance teams. Ephraim is the co-founder and current coach of Sojourneyed Da Truth Poetry at Kent State University and was recently recognized as a top-10 performance and writing team at the College Unions Poetry Slam Invitational in 2017. Ephraim is also the co-program director of Northeast Ohio’s only PSI recognized venue, The People. Ephraim’s work has been featured on Slamfind, Write About Now, Button Poetry, TedxKentState and other channels and publications.


HEAVEN Ephraim Nehemiah


after the bailiff calls two last names conference room 312 opens god wears a black robe throne / elevated a devil a demon a father standing near heaven1 wait for the judgement to begin a trail decides if the father will be let in or at least be allowed to visit

the hearing begins the demon begins talking claims plaintiff must be kept from heaven for protection5 warns of all the sin that will taint the pearly gates the devil is called to the stand and the testimony transforms reality6 blood stained fur and jagged fangs replace the plaintiff7 plaintiff becomes abuser the devil becomes a parent trying to do what’s best for their son

a courtroom becomes biblical 2 methods like this found in the lie Job convinced himself of3 tragedy goes down easier with imagination4 trials and tribulations that do not kill but test the faith

8

the clouds burst into a heckling shrill the wind vanishes beneath feet gravity snatches limbs towards burning heaven looks further than it’s ever been i will not i will not i will not i will not i will not

call that prison a relationship let my voice shape into any sound that resembles her name accept a proverb where i can have protection comfort abusers by making them think time can absolve their sins forgive them

nor do I want to “not forgiving someone is like drinking poison and expecting them to die”

1 They are not in Heaven rather standing outside of the gates close enough to see paradise 2 Study reports that making an obstacle mythological is a remedy for feeling helpless 3 Job claims his misfortune was caused by a wager between the devil and god 4 See, “How to Convince Yourself Maintaining Through the Pain is Faithfulness” or, “How Grief Becomes a Blessing when Ordered by God” 5 Souls that are unsuitable will be prevented from heaven or have their visiting time severely limited 6 Here, the Devil does what Devils do and the courtroom listens and the plaintiff swallows enough silence to make noise envious 7 See, “Will I See My Son Again, an Analysis of Fear and How It Corrupts Hope” or “How Can I Make Them Believe Me: Pro Se and Black in a Courtroom” 8 The son is heaven, rather, paradise is a relationship with what you value as most precious. The plaintiff wants to be let into their son’s life


FOR US WHO DRINK POISON Ephraim Nehemiah


i do not expect them to die as much as I expect them to attack again the hell of gaslighting and manipulation will make the high road undesirable my peace conveniently forgot the address of forgiveness and chose to reside in survival swallowing this much pain turns the blood into an armory i be i be i be

resistant fortitude from lessons learned the hard way victim turned, bet you wont do this to me again manipulators-waiting-for-window-to-sneak-in-imsorrys-spilling-out-the-mouth

Abuser i will be a vessel of poison gladly if it means the next lecherous jaw that tries to chew me into damaged chokes on a mouthful of poison and knows exactly what not forgiving taste like

worst nightmare


LIES I TELL MYSELF AFTER ANOTHER VISITATION HEARING After Hanif Willis-Abdurraqib “I do not call this war” Ephraim Nehemiah


i do not i do not

horde jealousy after witnessing parents spending time with their children say, “im not sure where the time went” when I mean I couldn’t escape the bed today

i do not i do not

know the bed to be a seductive prison keeping me from commitments I made to friends adopt the lies like, “i feel fine” and “yes ive seen him”

i do not count the days until the next court date i do not think the court a history of lungs and heavy water (a slow drowning) (the last breath after wading) i do not imagine myself vanished i do not lose time staring at the photo album with his name wonder how long til a new picture with both our faces can reside in it i do not build a dam for the pain before drinking my silence i do not forget every time I try to speak something into existence my words are flooded with doubt i have maybe explored how to recover from a wound that is still splitting how to give myself a name other than absence so the narrative ends with a reunion or at least my imagination becomes strong enough to convince me it did


ON LEARNING HOW TO LOVE Ephraim Nehemiah


1. A suburban haired pale faced classmate Blank stares me down into a longer explanation Of why my Christianity fears the same god I love “you know how you fear your parents cause if you act up they’ll beat yo behind but you still love them” And he looks at me like a damaged thing still confused while my perfect analogy crumbles into the asphalt “no my parents don’t hit” I look at his answer like he don’t know the wrath of a belt My people say them the folk that grow up wild and free And we can’t be like that My people will save my behind from sin By being my first encounter with evil My god is vengeful Jealous / wrath dripping from a crown of thorns This is how I learned to love Through unquestioned obedience To someone who will put me in my place Even if it is an eternity of burning 2. she would call herself a god and i would nod and agree say god is in everything so why not us when this god presented herself as a violent deity / i turn my palms into greetings and welcome the storm / i take every blow cause real men don’t raise hands unless for reverence / don’t say no word about god that isn’t praise / don’t tell nobody about something that cannot exist / like masculine and abused by god must be god / everyone who has ever hit me was some type of savior / childhood taught me its normal to fear the ones I am closest to / both god and parents will punish me out of love / in a way i have been preparing for this kind of relationship / so i kept my faith / the storms continued and it had to be a storm / its makes it easier to remember if I call it that / something that will eventually pass / like all biblical trials / my god would apologize tho / definitely a holy apology / the kind where the deity depletes the life and returns nothing but barren promises / makes creation feel comfortable with the destruction / say a miracle will come / even if being alive is the miracle / aint that what it means to be religious / asking with hands pressed together to be saved knowing god may not come when I want her but she’ll be there right on time or judgement day


I ASKED MY MAMA WHAT SHE WANTED FOR HER 52ND BIRTHDAY AND SHE SAID A POEM Ephraim Nehemiah


so here I am cause this is my Mama who raised me who i am sure would have a lecture ready if i disappoint ready to remind me even if im grown “im still your Mama” as if to say, “i aint through with you yet” God shined through a deserving servant named Robin the clouds parted to deliver a voice fit for an angel a voice for both salvation and judgement day for both punishment and forgiveness Multiple choice question: How many lessons can god put in one woman A. Enough to last several lifetimes B. So many the universe will crumble without them C. You will understand when you get older D. All of the above Mama is an expert on saving whether it be sinner or coupons Mama knows how to lower the cost of living how to lift the burden off a soul and a wallet two constants in my life poverty and my Mama hands pressed tight enough to whip a prayer that can cure an empty belly wound a fractured heart cause life be balanced like that if the faith of a mustard seed can move mountains then faith of my Mama can shift planets so i know my world wouldn’t be the in orbit without her


MORE POETS:


Tyne Sansom Laura Hoffman Geoff Anderson James Croal Jackson Roscoe Burnems Stephanie Okonkwo Monica Stevens-Kirby Viannah E. Duncan Gabrielle Caggiano


Springsteen Tyne Sansom


Check this out: Vinnie Mad Dog Lopez’s bass drum boomed and flacked! like handclaps in triplets right before the beat. Sometimes off his throne he’d jump to beat a reckless heckler, riff-raff, some poor chap! GO-GO’s? Who got the beat? Slapstick rhythm, blap, blu, blap, crack! But wait, there’s more to the story than that! Sancious, blasted the keys for this gig before Simon, Gabriel, Clapton, Beck. Lush chords were pressed and preserved on vinyl. He rolled out sideways jazz expletives. This shit gives me goosebumps, like… I had high hope for a synonymous view. Listen, it’s like a circus coming out of the speakers, Tubas blatting the wild, the innocent and The E Street shuffle with the raspy Master of Ceremony banging pinball machines and discount psychics with no future out of Jersey.


Fragments Of A Prison Visit Laura Hoffman


I lied. my omissions burst forth from the inseam of his over washed blue prison scrubs I followed his voice & its cadence borrowed from beasts bobbing one sticky Saturday I spread dust under emerald canopies and concertina halos you see we had been sending letters for months all that was left in the canteen was two dented cans of mountain dew but I wanted him there is a certain blind spot in a Florida prison where I robbed the man I’d left back home


Healing Geoff Anderson


Godmom cut herself her palm. I watched the

slicing bagels, blade facing black snowfall of poppy

seeds mountain on granite, flashes of stainless steel bleed through crust. It’s her hand that bursts beneath the bandage, a circle anchored like the balloons I would untie from tables on my birthday, a game. The bulbs would thread they lighted away; grew

through my fingers before smaller. No, just more

distant; I thought the sky chewed before swallowing each of them; the body erases by eating away at what breaks open. Wait long that does not vanish;

enough. There is nothing not her cut, not her, not.


Ornithology Geoff Anderson


Locked out, I found a feather on my porch, ran its fibers down my life line. Holding it in my hand was the closest I ever came to wings. My finger traced its white circles surrounded by a black colder than night. If I were an animal, I’d be a woodpecker, the complexion of my parents. It was the season of awakening, beaks living not on bark, but what they found inside. Taps dug deeper in the birch around me, not even the heart safe from the hunt. But what color is a bird? I had no answer for what one looked like naked— the pink of morning; the rainbow of oil on the street; me, still pale in May. There is hunger in asking if anyone is there behind the wood. I caught my hand knocking on my door in unison with the drumming. If I were a woodpecker, would I see the pattern as a song, or my feathers as my skin, or myself staring back in the glass?


License Geoff Anderson


My father taught me hold a steering wheel 10-2 like the hours he and I spent Saturday mornings in his Protege, he, a passenger, left hand on his lap. I kept waiting for it to reach and pull us away from traffic. New to driving, I didn’t deserve his blind faith I would keep to my lane. He must have known what driving school burned into the retina of my memory; how struck, a bumper folds its cards. Seeing my father get in, I called him brave. I was not, my pulse in my ears when he handed me the keys. I hid white knuckles in a smile, my teeth in the mirror before the test he signed me up for. According to him, he wouldn’t always be here. Yet, when has he left? I see fingerprints all over me; the way I adjust my mirrors, the sports radio on the dial; how, to this day, I tell myself keep an eye on the road. I even use his voice, driving up streets we drove down alone, each house still the same, the same, the same


I FORGOT I WAS DRINKING James Croal Jackson


beer half past noon listening reading to sam sax’s on alcohol poem after the final line in one hand a bottle to my lips my body a future compromised i promised mom i’d outlive her & it’s going well so far but these low-hanging clouds are moving fast and there are drips of sky becoming foggier sara says we shouldn’t have drank last night a monday but the beers at woodlands are bargain $2 drafts o genie whisk me to an open field with flask construct a crumbling house at the center where i lay drooling the day’s indiscretions my mouth a volcano concrete spat into my palms the heaviness of me drops


THE EMPLOYMENT OF DREAMERS

– After Gray Clark

James Croal Jackson


I need to quit my job as the caretaker of people who surrendered art to come home from work and watch television. I can imagine acrylic burning a canvas for eternity. Giving up mattered to me a year ago. It will matter again in a year.


[by: Roscoe Burnems ]


when they say it’s because he was a criminal do not fit the description because she was being aggressive do not look aggressive because they were wearing a hood do not wear a hood do not be from the hood because he was big do not be big shrink when you have nothing but your body do not body do not move do not breathe or they will take it gun down your character and leave it a carcass to rot in the streets your body is only the beginning it is truth in your throat that will hang silent framed like the portraits of innocent voices that came before you a gallery of misconstrued misunderstood misappropriated when you say it’s because you are black you will hear do not be you do not be human do not be oppressed in the company of your oppressors what they are saying is do not be high enough to sit with them but do not be low enough to have excuses be middle of the road side of the road roadkill tar black shadow hiding black fist fist is aggressive do not be fist 75 percent of accused criminals are black do not look like a criminal [read as: do not be black] and even if you don’t be prepared to not do whatever they make you next


August 12th, 2016 Roscoe Burnems


My 9 year old and I are caught in a wave of emotion watching olympic swimmers. Simone Manuel. First black woman to splash in olympic gold. Before, my daughter thought nothing of swimming but a goal, few strokes to check off a bucket list; a hobby at best. She now knows this is tangible. Seen a black queen get her crown wet and wash away the stereotypes of black bodies in water. That we do more than sink and fight the water for not being land. She can float like butterfly stroke and rage like the sea. Seeing Simone dive into history showed my baby that black can be ocean and Oshun. The next day, when the sun is smiling and soaking a motherland in her skin, she is in the pool teaching herself to Be kick Be pull Be thrust Be wave Be current Be brave Be fervent Be breaking records and stigmas Each lap, a swim across coastlines, a thank you to Simone, to Cullen Jones, to Marteiza Correia, to the Africans snatched away from the shoreline; The ones that jumped in the Atlantic, fists still raised on the ocean floor. And the ones that stayed and taught us to swim.


The Big Chop Roscoe Burnems


I locked my hair to teach me patience. It didn’t really work. When dreadlocks cascaded down my back, a bevy of thick cables, they gave me power. I didn’t care for them when they were awkward and short, still finding themselves (Like, in my food when I leaned in to eat). Love your hair for what it is. Not for what you can turn it into,. For everything it’s supposed to be My hair promised forever (I thought), but the older we got, we grew apart. Thinning, broken. I felt abandoned. I cut them loose, but held in tears not wanting them to go. Looked at my reflection and had to find myself beautiful all over again, or maybe, for the first time without hair to hide behind. A pile of memories scattered on a bathroom floor reminded me of every relationship that receded into break ups. How we were just fibers. How I was afraid to grow alone. Didn’t feel much like a Sampson ‘til i was woven into a Delilah.

Love someone for who they are. Not what you can turn them into. but for everything they are supposed to be. How shallow is it losing my hair taught me to love someone unconditional. Rough patches. No conditioner. Not realizing what you were until you slide your palms across what’s left: A thinning scalp, a broken heart, an empty bed. I cut women loose if there was a thinning affection I was broken. Held them in tears not wanting them to go. Confused and scared. Callous, and codependent. I was quick to be tied up, tied down, tie the knot. Couldn’t imagine myself single and exposed. Afraid the world would be too cold. There is a difference though, between being a strand and being stranded;

Treated every relationship like a rubber-band ribbon, or something pretty to tie us together. This was a gaudy love. I didn’t adore them, I adorned them, like an ornament, like a shackle.

I used locks to disguise what I hated about myself, used women to disguise I that hated myself.

I was immature and impatient. Never gave us enough time to grow. Was awkward and short with them while we were still finding ourselves.

Hair and lovers break. Love whether they return or not. Your crown toward the sun. Shine.

Frightened to look at my reflection and find beauty without someone to hide behind. You have to love yourself for who you are For everything you turn into For everything you are supposed to be.


Do You Love Baltimore? Stephanie Okonkwo


You say you love Baltimore But do you love Sandtown the way you love south Baltimore? Is your love limited to peppering your sentences with Hons Crabs Bohs and Os And ingesting Berger cookies Or is it really real? Is your love standing in the middle of North Ave and Penn Street Repping hard when it isn’t sweet Paint chipped benches in the city that reads? Did you grow up playing tag between light poles Mad at Trump but silent when people joke that you come from a shithole? Is your love cosmetic? Dip below the aesthetic You say you love BALTIMORE But do you love Harlem Park the way you love Hampden? Do you roll down by Station North And see them turning Patterson Park and Orleans Into Station East Where older residents live in constant FOMO Did you know Lex Market is now called Bromo? Wonder if brown people and hot peanuts are still Konstant? Do you love Baltimore? Have you walked the streets where people double check their car doors Had four wings fried hard saltpeppaketchup or a hot dug? Have you read how Pennsylvania Ave was a Mecca for African America celebrity Or do you love White girls with Nikons Snapping Crime scenes for Insta pages? Getting nationwide attention but I wonder if She’s connecting with Erricka, whos been burning sage and holding space for ages? Some white folk check black city off of do gooder checklist in between peace corps work in remote African City and pink pussy hats for justice I just want to know if you love Franklin Square like you love Fells Point.

Do you really love Baltimore’s students? Or is this poverty porn meant to bring you And your Towson friends collectively to orgasm Sympathetically clicking their tongue as they secretly award you sainthood For teaching here when you could be anywhere? When you talk about your cold classroom I feel your breathing change and your heart rate go up You are almost...almost...almost there. So busy talking about Michael and his silver teeth that really need a fix That you forgot to mention Nana—testing at 8th grade reading and comprehension levels at the age of six. Is Baltimore your home, the place where You bloom when planted Or is it your charity case For the LIFE OF ME, I cannot tell Your enthusiasm masks your deprecation Incredibly well. You “love your home here” but can’t wait to sell You work in our schools but send your kids somewhere else. All I want to know is if you love Greenmount like you love Greektown. If you are ready to help all of it Are you really down If not, I promise you, there’s another town With your name on it. If you are going to be here, BE HERE. Otherwise don’t put your claim on it.


Too Little, Too Late Stephanie Okonkwo


Now here’s the conundrum Don’t want to help them sidestep their sins Until after they done them No interest in their freedom until it’s no longer an option When they’ve paid the last piper and the Sound of music ran up and got them How...? We won’t put his name on a list to see how he’s doing in school No cold calls or pop ups to make sure that he’s cool We love what the fast life does for our brothers Until the love of speed runs them over like it did to the others Then we ask the skies why as the reality beats our shoulders. Mama sinks to knees in disbelief while a faceless relative holds her... The finality sets in and my God that mess hurts Won’t put their name in our prayers but We’ll screen print it on our shirts…


My Therapist Was a Rabid Raccoon Monica Stevens-Kirby


“Your therapist was a rabid raccoon.” That’s how he said it, on the bed, into my ear, after taking me in wild animal form. If I had a totem for that day, I’d laugh then scold myself: how unexpected but not. I savor the form of her insouciance, slick coat, in the rain, mask of furnished beauty, like a feral woman poured into a puddle, the wicked witch of our piney backyard. She slumped to me with soulful staring and crooked secrets. I welcomed her. (What magic encounters do we receive?) Mothers can sense exhaustion in fellow mothers, bottom line. I opened my door; I spoke to her, like a mother to a child, or a child to its mother. My hisses were hounded cries for help and stern warnings for her to leave. Sickness (sometimes) is attractive: a dark swath of wet fur, a striped coat, opposable thumbs to do stuff with. How do I resist what wanted me, what walked up to my patio? She asked me to go, but I didn’t want to. She showed me herself in flashing onyx-marble hurt, wise eyes I couldn’t turn away from. What if she could unfix latches, fit herself into my den, where my daughter would scoop her up and name her as a pet? Why is it so hard to differentiate the need to protect and the need to let go Because we cannot heal a rabid raccoon when she lands at our feet, however that happens? We can only hope she lies down to prepare herself for what is inevitable. We can wait. We wait.


In 101, I Was Advised Not to Write This Way Monica Stevens-Kirby


What is it about an overdone metaphor? A flower, a rose, piteous example of wasted English teacher ink, Red, maybe like a rose, a glaring stereotype, and, therefore, skipped over; It stops meaning much. Yet, in my garden, I stroke its little ear, A rose’s ear, fragile, frustrating. It has an ear, I promise! Biologists may tell you it has a vulva. Artists may point to books, where Feminist painters place it at triangular tables beside the pits of peaches, Which all seems too in-your-face. A rose is more than an ear, or a vulva. She is a full-bodied woman, robust--with ears. Maybe she hears my song in the dark. I have harsh feet like Mother Gothel’s, but my voice is like a Siren’s, Trilling in the brambles, after bedtime (in suburbia,) sounding the nervous hymns of Briar Rose. Although it is a common hum, I am no less extraordinary for it. I am singing at slugs. I buy them beer. I call them home to my crown of thorns with golden hairs. I watch them persist. By this, amazed, curious, terrified, disgusted, jealous. Over a thorn, up a leaf, these are the red-shirted frat boys of footballer dreams. I’m no true freshman. Mormonistic propagation powers, with thousands of teeth, have I, like them. And, they, so slow, so gentle when they stick upon their chosen host. In my case, roses. I need to understand why I hate them and what I did wrong. I pour them cocktails before I bed. In orgies by the moon, they tumble into funnels, sweet and sticky, tubs I made for them to lie in. I’m Panama City at spring break, watching them die in blissful, poisoned droves. They suicide by beer, fat and happy, swelling to death. My t-shirt, brined in my own sweat mixes with unholy water of the garden hose I used to wash the dirt off my feet. I don’t need Jesus to be clean in this wet t-shirt no one wants to see, or judge, or pick me for a prize.


Right wrist Viannah E. Duncan


slender, the hand with which I write. freckles move up my arm; veins, down to my fingers. scars on the inside of my wrist. two on either side of center, just missing a main artery, crawl toward my elbow from my palm. a third, small and round on the right of my upturned wrist from leaning on a hot stove when I was twelve.


Lies and Other Agents of Fate Gabrielle Caggiano


Give me the nuances of holding hands in transit from one ancient city to the next. Tell me that my eyes are orbs alight with passion that my lips were molded for yours by the gods. Eros drew the blueprints of our bodies so Jupiter could craft us on a potter’s wheel. Tell me your green eyes were no happy accident and the strands of my dark hair have authorial intent, that we were fated to down espresso like shots of liquor as if our lives were hanging in the balance of Jupiter’s jurisdiction on a sleepy night in Naples. You read more Shakespeare than Latin; that’s why you chose her. A lover with Venus’ golden hair. I sent you to attend her plays in the amphitheater instead of translating Georgics with me. I ignored the way you watched her. Forgave you even though I felt as scorned as Juno.


OTHER CONTRIBUTORS TO THIS ISSUE: Tyne Sansom

is a Graduate student in English at the Eastern New Mexico University in Portales, New Mexico. He lives with his family with three sons and baby daughter, Olive. He likes to cycle and play music.

Laura Hoffman

is a United States Marine Corps veteran and senior at The University of North Florida. Hoffman’s most recent work appears in: Clear Poetry, The Bangalore Review, Penultimate Peanut, Bop Dead City, The Gyroscope Review, Typishly, 2River, Poetry Circle, and Cease Cows.

Geoff Anderson

curated Columbus, OH’s first shows for biracial writers, The Other Box, and translation, Lingua Franca. He’s a Callaloo fellow and his chapbook, Humming Dirges, won Paper Nautilus’s Debut Series (2017). He has work on/forthcoming in Tinderbox, Juked, Southern Indiana Review, and www.andersongeoff.com.

James Croal Jackson

is the author of The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017). His poetry has appeared in Hobart, FLAPPERHOUSE, Yes Poetry, and elsewhere. He edits The Mantle, a poetry journal. Find him in Columbus, Ohio or at jimjakk.com.


Roscoe Burnems

Born Douglas C. Powell, Roscoe Burnems is a father, husband, educator, poet, spoken-word artist, and teaching artist -in that order- from Richmond, VA. He is a National Poetry Slam champion (2014), two time Southern Fried Poetry Festival team finalist (2009,2014), and published author. Roscoe has dedicated his art to using poetry as a therapeutic means to battling all forms of oppression while also bringing light to depression and anxiety in the Black community, especially in young men. These struggles while they may seem worlds apart often go hand-in-hand as the trauma we face as a culture can create or exacerbate internal struggles that are often unexpressed.

Stephanie Okonkwo

Stephanie “Birthwrite The Poet” Okonkwo is a middle school teaching fellow, lover, fighter and poet born and raised in Baltimore City. Her favorite quote is “the ink of a scholar is more sacred than the blood of a martyr”. When not writing, you can find “Ms. O.” in middle school, surrounded by a throng of 12 year olds and trying to learn the latest dance challenge.

Monica Stevens-Kirby

is a licensed marriage and family therapist in Georgia. Monica works with child and adult survivors of sexual trauma, same-sex couples, and transgender individuals. She delights in her work with young children, infusing play and expressive arts with traditional, evidence-based therapies. Monica is published regularly in The Huffington Post; her poetry and personal essays are regularly published in elephant journal, as well as other publications online and in print.

Viannah E. Duncan

is an author, poet, editor, and human. Her website is http://www.duncanheights.com/

Gabrielle Caggiano

is an English and Classics major at the University of Maryland Baltimore County. She received gold key awards for poetry and painting in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and the Jack W. Bonner IV Award from The Asheville School for her scholastic papers on Sylvia Plath. Her poetry has appeared in The Rising Phoenix Review, The Wilderness House Literary Review, The Mangrove Journal, and The Northern Virginia Review.



Turn static files into dynamic content formats.

Create a flipbook
Issuu converts static files into: digital portfolios, online yearbooks, online catalogs, digital photo albums and more. Sign up and create your flipbook.