Sterling Notes | Fall 2019 by Sterling Notes

ISSUE 2 VOLUME 1 | FALL 2019

hO asilE .rD rosivdA ytlucaF

STERLING NOTES

silloH araerB ,yelloH neruaL srotidE noitceS yremogtnoM ibaG feihC-ni-rotidE

BARBARA JONES-HOGU, “Unite (First State),” 1969 (screenprint). | © Barbara Jones-Hogu, Courtesy Lusenhop Fine Art

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Alma Thomas, The Eclipse, 1970, acrylic on canvas, Smithsonian American Art Museum Alma Thomas, Snoopy Sees Earth Wrapped in Sunset, 1970, acrylic on canvas, Smithsonian American Art Museum

editor's note

Contest Winners

Fiction Rainbow Nation Anierejuoritse Atsagbede pg. 5

This fall issue of Sterling Notes is not only an accumulation of a semester's worth of hard work on behalf of myself and the Sterling Notes Editorial Board, but it is a declaration of my commitment to commemorating the legacy of revolutionary action. This issue has been a labor of love that embodies everything I value about the African American literary and radical tradition, Howard University, teen girl stands in what once and the Sterling Allen Brown English Society. was paradise, calls for help Nyah Hardmon The Black Arts and Black Power Movements are undoubtedly linked to Howard pg. 33 through a number of impressive writers, artists, and activists, some of whom

Poetry

Gabi Montgomery EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Art The Boy and The Rig Joshua Carter pg. 47

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are featured in this issue. This revolutionary legacy has carried me through the tumultuous circumstances of organizing and studying the intricate details of literature and history. Though I am particularly influenced by The Black Arts and Black Power Movements as I carry out my life in all of its dimensions, it was the contributors of this issue who compelled me to highlight this pivotal moment in the African American literary canon. I must borrow from June Jordan to say the contributors of this issue commit the political act of truth telling through their literary work and the work that comprises this issue is in turn profound.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS p.5 Rainbow Nation Anirejuoritse Atsagbede

p.11

Had Enough Hoodie

p.13

Aren't They Both Right Olabisi Bello

p.15

p.20

Floorless Joshua Carter

p.22 Voice Zipporah Chang

p.23

Reality's Lap Qibho Intalektual

p.26

Work of Art Nyla Jones

Benches Dante Everson

p.16

p.30

Untitled Carmiña Junípero

p.17

Eva Nyah Hardmon

This Ain't Gon Work Aaron Oates

p.34

Old Whales Jana Ross

p.35 Learning to Fly Darrica Mann

p.36

A Letter to Mystery Boy Sade Johnson

p.38

LUMIÈRE, LUCE, LIGHT Azura

p.40 Untitled Adjzi

p.33

teen girl stranded in what was once paradise, calls for help Nyah Hardmon

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TABLE OF CONTENTS CONT. p.41

Loïs Mailou Jones, Moon Masque, 1971, oil and collage on canvas, Smithsonian American Art Museum,

p.52

Blue Carmiña Junípero

1926-2005 Jade Maddison Scott

p.42

p.53

Thought's Peak Jade Madison Scott

Inheritance Danielle Knox

p.43

p.54

When You Went Away Nadira Jamerson

p.44

p.64

Protective Style Jana Ross

February 26, 2012 Darrica Mann

p.56

I'm Almost Me Again, She's Almost You Maya McCollum

Mother May I Phyllis McElroy

p.47

p.57

Mother Earth's Cries Olabisi Bello

p.48

p.58

Pork, Beef, Salt Lauren Holley

Catch Again Kela B

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The Boy and The Rig Joshua Carter

AMIRI BARAKA

Amiri Baraka was born Everett LeRoi Jones in Newark, New Jersey, on October 7, 1934. His father, Colt Jones, was a postal supervisor; Anna Lois Jones, his mother, was a social worker. He attended Rutgers University for two years, then transferred to Howard University, where in 1954 he earned his BA in English. He served in the Air Force from 1954 until 1957, then moved to the Lower East Side of Manhattan. There he joined a loose circle of Greenwich Village artists, musicians, and writers. The following year he married Hettie Cohen and began coediting the avant-garde literary magazine Yugen with her. That year he also founded Totem Press, which first published works by Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, and others. He published his first volume of poetry, Preface to a Twenty-Volume Suicide Note, in 1961. From 1961 to 1963 he was co-editor, with Diane Di Prima, of The Floating Bear, a literary newsletter. His increasing mistrust of white society was reflected in two plays, The Slave and The Toilet, both written in 1962. Blues People: Negro Music in White America, which he wrote, and The Moderns: An Anthology of New Writing in America, which he edited and introduced, were both published in 1963. His reputation as a playwright was established with the production of Dutchman at the Cherry Lane Theatre in New York on March 24, 1964. The controversial play subsequently won an Obie Award (for "best off-Broadway play") and was made into a film. In 1965, following the assassination of Malcolm X, Jones repudiated his former life and ended his marriage. He moved to Harlem, where he founded the Black Arts Repertory Theatre/School. The company, which produced plays that were intended for a black audience, dissolved in a few months. He moved back to Newark, and in 1967 he married poet Sylvia Robinson (now known as Amina Baraka). That year he also founded the Spirit House Players, which produced, among other works, two of Baraka's plays against police brutality: Police and Arm Yrself or Harm Yrself. In 1968, Baraka co-edited Black Fire: An Anthology of Afro-American Writing with Larry Neal and his play Home on the Range was performed as a benefit for the Black Panther party. That same year he became a Muslim, changing his name to Imamu Amiri Baraka. He assumed leadership of his own black Muslim organization, Kawaida. From 1968 to 1975, Baraka was chairman of the Committee for Unified Newark, a black united front organization. In 1969, his Great Goodness of Life became part of the successful "Black Quartet" off-Broadway, and his play Slave Ship was widely reviewed. Baraka was a founder and chairman of the Congress of African People, a national Pan-Africanist organization with chapters in 15 cities, and he was one of the chief organizers of the National Black Political Convention, which convened in Gary, Indiana, in 1972 to organize a more unified political stance for African-Americans. In 1974 Baraka adopted a Marxist Leninist philosophy and dropped the spiritual title "Imamu." In 1983, he and Amina Baraka edited Confirmation: An Anthology of African-American Women, which won an American Book Award from the Before Columbus Foundation. Amiri Baraka's numerous literary prizes and honors include fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, the PEN/Faulkner Award, the Rockefeller Foundation Award for Drama, the Langston Hughes Award from the City College of New York, and a lifetime achievement award from the Before Columbus Foundation. He taught poetry at the New School for Social Research in New York, literature at the University of Buffalo, and drama at Columbia University. He also taught at San Francisco State University, Yale University and George Washington University. For two decades, Baraka was a professor of Africana Studies at the State University of New York in Stony Brook. He was co-director, with his wife, of Kimako's Blues People, a community arts space, and died on January 9, 2014.

Biography of Amiri Baraka provided by Poets.org

AMIRI BARAKA "Let Black people understand/ That they are the lovers and the sons/ Of Warriors and sons/ Of warriors and sons/ Of warriors Are poems & poets &/ All the loveliness here in the world"

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CON TEST WIN NER

Rainbow Nation

By Anirejuoritse Atsagbede

“Each of us is as intimately attached to the soil of this beautiful country as are the famous jacaranda trees of Pretoria and the mimosa trees of the bushveld – a rainbow nation at peace with itself and the world.” Nelson Mandela I was only seven years old, but I did not need anyone to tell me we were not accepted here. I saw it in the overt animosity from locals when they heard my mother’s Nigerian accent, the suspicious stares that I soon grew accustomed to, and the struggle of my mother to gain access to jobs. Aunty Ginika was my mother’s friend from secondary school and she had been kind enough to let us squat in her apartment till my mother found her feet. Aunty Ginika lived in a derelict block of flats popularly known as “Immigrant quarters” on the outskirts of Johannesburg with several other African immigrants. To our right was the old but perky Uncle Muoyo from Zimbabwe, who made a living as a taxi driver. To our left was Uncle Akiki, his wife Namazzi, and their two daughters. They were all from Uganda. My mother braided their hair every weekend. “You should set up a salon Ndidi! I have never met anyone who makes hair like you do” Aunty Namazzi always told my mother. My mother would laugh and modestly brush off the suggestion. The harsh the warm welcome and solidarity of the other African immigrants who also lived in the Immigrant quarters. “We’re in this together!” Uncle Muoyo would frequently exclaim in his

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treatment we received from the South Africans everyday was placated by

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distinctive accent, “we’ve got to support each other my Nigerian sister! One Africa!” Over the first few months, after our arrival, my father in Nigeria sent us as much money as he could squeeze from his mechanic workshop but as time progressed, the money from my father decreased till he stopped sending us money altogether. My mother’s calls with him became very sparse and terse till they stopped speaking completely. When I asked for him, she always told me to be quiet. One day, when I was supposed to be asleep, I listened in on Aunty Ginika and my mother’s discussion. “A boy?” Aunty Ginika’s voice said “Yes, a boy, with one of those university girls.” My mother’s voice shook. “Chai! All these men just cannot be trusted. Imagine!” “Ginika, I do not know what to do. He no longer sends money; not even a dime.” My mother never spoke of my father again and after that day, she changed. Her slavish attitude of “Please give me a job” was replaced with that of “I do not need your jobs. I will create one for myself.” It was then that she dove head first into the hair braiding business. I followed her as she went from house to house braiding the hair of women in Johannesburg. My daily practice was watching my mother expertly use her three-tooth wooden comb to create neat parts in the hair of her customers before gripping the length. There was never a strand of hair left out of place. By the end of our first year in Johannesburg the name Ndidi had become synonymous to quality hair braiding services and my mother was in high demand.

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ends of the hair, adding extensions and braiding it down to their desired

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Things were going great; we had spent two years in South Africa and my mother had moved out of Aunty Ginika’s apartment to a small one-bedroom apartment in the same building. Now, she was finally fulfilling the immigrant dream and opening up a hair braiding salon. I remember my first time seeing the bright yellow sign placed above the entrance of the store. “KESANDU; Unisex hair braiding salon” the sign read. I smiled; she had named the salon after me. Aunty Ginika helped us set up the store. Uncle Akiki offered to repaint the walls of the salon for free. My mother chose a bright lavender color for her store. Uncle Muoyo donated wash basins to my mother. Aunty Namazzi brought in cartons of Cantu shampoos and conditioners. Other African immigrants came and dropped off supplies: combs, hair cream, blow dryer, a standing fan for the heat. “One Africa!” they would exclaim as they dropped off the gifts. Her business expanded gradually. One month she would buy a new mirror, the next, a poster. Then she bought a small flat screen TV and replaced the standing fan with an air conditioner. Kesandu was thriving. I was in the salon every day after school and on weekends. When I got bored, I went out to play with the children of the other store owners on the block, most of whom were African immigrants. One special friend of mine was Luan. Luan was the son of the South African baker three stores to our right where the customers frequently sent me to buy snacks for them. Luan was a skinny boy with oily dark skin and a head that I thought was too big for his body. I frequently snuck out of the salon so we could go on adventures. We took on different roles. Sometimes he was a superhero with extraordinary strength, and I had laser vision. Luan was a fine mixture of calm and cheer and I loved being around him.

polythene bag. Inside the polythene bag was the most beautiful pair of purple shoes I had ever laid my eyes on. Luan said his father got them on his trip to America, which made me love them even more. I wore the shoes

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On my tenth birthday Luan shyly handed me something wrapped in a

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whenever I could and cleaned them prudently at the end of each day. It was a lazy day in the salon and my mother was lounging on the chair. We had heard of the attacks, but my mother’s store was in the safe part of Johannesburg, so we were never bothered. I was finishing up my homework so I could go play with Luan. Because of the power outage, the entrance door had been propped open to let in some air. “Sister Ndidi,” the Somali mechanic at the end of the street called from the entrance of the store. He was panting. Sweat poured from the hat on his head, his entire cotton shirt was soaked. “Asad what is it?” my mother said, alarmed. “They’re here, sister. They’re here.” his words tumbled over each other. “They’re burning down everything, everything, They are killing people. They are here.” He ran off. Other shop owners slowly began to evacuate. “Let us try to take some things before they arrive,” my mother said in panic. We tried to carry some products, but the chants grew closer and the block was now deserted. “What do we want?” I heard booming voice shout. “Foreigners out!” the mob responded. “They take our jobs!” “Foreigners out!”

“Foreigners out!”

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“They steal our wives”

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“What do we want?” “Foreigners out!” We heard them looting shops at the end of the block, and no one had to tell us to drop the supplies and flee. I remember running with other foreigners and looking back at our shop to see the swarm of black bodies armed with stones, cutlasses, kegs of kerosene, and iron rods. They had broken Kesandu’s store window. Other stores were in flames, and I knew ours would be too. People were crying, some were shouting, a mix of different African accents, as we all struggled to find safety. In the chaos, this was when my purple shoe slid off my left foot. I looked back to get it and my mother instantly snatched me away. “My shoe!” “Mechie ọnụ (Shut up)” my mother screamed, her eyes wide with fear and desperation. “That is not important now Kesandu!” We could not go back home because they had set the Immigrant Quarters on fire. But a Xhosa customer of my mother offered to give us a place to stay. “Have you heard from Ginika? Muoyo?” the Xhosa woman asked my mother, concerned. They were both on the Xhosa woman’s living room sofa. “Ginika is not picking my calls. I heard Muoyo was attacked on the road.” My mother gave out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t think he made it.” “I’ll just go back home with Kessy. The Nigerian government is evacuating people.” “But is there anything for you back home?”

My usually composed mother finally broke down, her shoulders shaking as

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“No,” my mother’s voice took on a sterner tone, “but at least let me die in my own land than in another man’s country.”

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she sobbed into her hands “Everything, everything is gone. All my hard work gone just like that! Chukwu mere? (God why?) Ehn, Chukwu mere?” The next day, we boarded a bus to the airport. It was a dreary mood, a pungent air of sweaty bodies intermingled with the despair of broken hopes and a foreboding uncertainty. My mother pulled me close to her and whispered into my ear, “I will get you another shoe Kessy. I promise.” I nodded. I knew now was not the right time to tell her that no shoe would ever replace what Luan gave me. I knew now was not the right time to tell her that I did not want to go back to Nigeria. I wanted the store, the shouts of “One Africa” in the immigrant quarters, Uncle Muoyo, and Luan’s calming presence.

She/Her/Hers

or Anire is an economics major and English minor from Lagos, Nigeria.

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Anirejuoritse Atsagbede

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Had Enough By Hoodie

Now I'm not here to argue over what lives matter/ listen up cause it's all mathematics/ and it's not adding up/ couldn't divide us/ so they steady subtracting us/ multiple cases / of race discrimination/ Malcom and Martin in they graves rotating/ off another soul taken/ like this is what we fought for/ this is what we marched for/ this is what we got shot for/yeah you putting Tubman on the 20 but where the change at/ wake up everyday/ and I see another face that/ resembles my own/ hair skin to the bone/ another brother who ain't make it home/ cause of his melanin tone/ well excuse me officer is my skin color too loud for you/ with my fist clenched raised high/ is that too proud for you/ I'm already on the ground/ is this enough face down for you/ question/ how much power do you/ feel the need to abuse/ as I frequent the news/ I see another badge being used/to replace a klan costume/ wonder why they killing us with no damn cost to em/ you not lynching anymore and I see you using bullets now/ no white hood/ so I guess that you removed the shroud/ cause you could show face and beat the case to/ why mask/ did I do something wrong/ why ask/ my bad/ I'm Black/ That counts for suspicious behavior/ grabbed the gun as you reached for the taser/ mistake ok I'll Grant you that/his family shouldn't even panic/they'll only never get em back/you deserve an Oscar award/ for lack of emotion with no bit of remorse/ with the entire force as the supporting cast/ they got your story backed/ that proves the justice system/ is just a system/ ain't no justice in it/ can't even pass judgment /when it's built so it can just assist em/but it's just us isn't it/ these ain't rhetorical questions/

Hoodied up 12 gauge Arizona can/ hollow tip skittle shells/ if that's not enough of a weapon/ I'm smart and I tell a riddle well/ put in a situation to slow me down/ but I still excelled/ but by they calculations at my age I should of been expelled/ tried to use a pipe line/ you wasn't in your rightÂ

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these the cries from my sistas and brethren

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mind/well I guess I learned about my Roots at the right time/ you know what rhymes with protect and serve/respect is earned/ but Imma neglect the urge/ to turn Nat Turner/ every time a Black's murdered/ my minds tense/ I can't relax further/ till we get this conversation going/ every place I'm going/ trynna have me scared/ and keep my face from showing/ they trynna stop our race from growing/ acquit and don't indict/ and think we'll be alright with it/ well I suggest that you invest in some night vision/ for when we start wearing all black out here/ and bring the panther party back out here/ cause you can't run the world off fear/ and I just had to make that clear

He/Him/His

is the pen name of Jordan Harris. He is a psychology major and political science minor from Washington, D.C.

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Hoodie

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Aren't They Both Right By Olabisi Bello

I always saw it in their eyes: The glowing disdain for me, The monster that roared in their pupils. Some eyes were just scared, shaking from my mere presence. No sense, everyone tense. Every step I took brought a thousand stares. Every mistake I made brought a million sneers. Not a celebrity, not a pop-star. Just a simple boy that loved looking at the stars. A boy that knew up from down. A boy that was not afraid to dream beyond the clouds. Never frowning, always smiling. They saw my smile as something else, something I could never tell. Why do you hold so much fear in your eyes? I bear no arms, I carry no charms. Why move your children away from me? I will do them no harm. Mum doesn’t want to explain and Dad pretends not to hear me. What is this secret that everyone holds so dearly? I deserve to know. Another trip down the street, More stares and more retreats. I see “High Rate of Racism in 2018”. The word “racism” stands out like a glowing neon light in the darkest hours of night. I turn my questioning eyes to Grandpa, He never hides anything from me.

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Stopping to look at the television at Grandpa’s shop,

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His explanation sends chills down my spine. The violence, the deaths, they all make no sense to me. Black, white Arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t they both right? Lifting my teary eyes to his sad ones, I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have to say what is on my mind. He knows it already. The mirror behind him stares back at me. The brown color I was born with stands out against the clear glass. A tear drops as I wonder if my skin would be the death of me.

She/Her/Hers

is a freshman chemical engineering major from Nigeria. She is a writer because she loves being able to communicate and impact people with her written words.

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Olabisi Bello

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Work of Art

By Nyla Jones

Being Black is an art. It is brilliant and magnificent in every way from the different hues that color our skin different shades, that fill our palettes. A variety of textures and patterns that create our hair. Multiples ways the paintbrush strokes to allow our language to flow and dialect have a voice. Our culture draws, paints, sculpts A story on our own blank canvases. But along with masterpieces criticism always ensues those who question or make accusations, conclusions about what something should be how it shouldn’t. But those same critics, can’t seem to create themselves, not understanding

Nyla Jones She/Her/Hers

Is a freshman English major from Maryland. She loves to write stories and poems. Nyla Jones hopes to become a writer who tells stories of Black characters as heroes and not clichés like gang members.

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the artist’s point of view.

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Untitled

By Carmiña Junípero

She/We/Hers

reflects very specific moments in this thing we call life.

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Carmiña Junípero is an artist of sorts who would prefer not to be known at all. Her writing

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Eva

By Nyah Hardmon

Eva hear a black boy speak? Voice of mahogany, Authority, Trying to combat the institutionalized instinct To question everything that he says. Yet the words flow out of his mouth like honey. Eva hear a black boy sing? A low rumble that begins in the throat and travels all the way to the fingertips. A rumble That makes even the mountains fall to their knees at the sound of a single note. A rumble That is imitated, Appropriated, But with blonde hair and privilege it never quite sounds the same. Eva see a black boy dance? Dancing not with the weight of an ocean but with the fluidity of a river, Eyes closed, faint smile, hips swaying. Dancing, Not for those around him, But for his ancestors, Eva see a black boy smile? The type of smile that lights up a whole universe, That holds millions of secrets, That outshines the sun itself,

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Dancing to the beat of their oppression.

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That looks how velvet feels, That lasts for lifetimes, Until it fades away. Eva see a black boy wince? Wincing once when he steps out of line, Twice, When his eyes wander or his lips misspeak and he’s reminded that he’s still a boy, Will always be a boy no matter how old he is. Eyes on the ground, Hands in plain sight, This thing around his neck, Yanking him back into place. Eva see a black boy cry? Frustrated tears that reek of defeat and spoiled pride. Tears that wipe away carefully constructed masks of artificial toughness. Tears that never see the light of day, That are only allowed out in the comfort of darkness. Tears that match his mother’s, Who would have never wanted to let him out that door in the first place. Eva see a black boy ball his fists? Eva see a black prepare for war? The streets taught him how to defend himself, right? Never flight, only fight, As if he could take on each and every injustice with his own two hands, A fire inside Then dimmed when he realized They brought a gun to a knife fight. Eva see a black boy bleed? When he’s lying there on the ground, Surrounded by his crimson crown, Is that when he is labeled non-threatening? Is that when the appeal of having dark skin finally crosses a line? Because everyone wants to act black Until it’s time to be black, Then no one wants to play dead

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in these streets, You see, contrary to popular belief When a black boy bleeds, He doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t just bleed red. He bleeds red And white And blue, His body physically grieving for a country he gave his everything to Yet refused to love him back, Refuses to love him back. When a black boy bleeds, The world stops for just a second As mother nature mourns her forsaken son.

She/Her/Hers

is a freshman journalism major from Fort Lauderdale, Florida. She enjoys both written and spoken word poetry.

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Nyah Hardmon

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Floorless

By Joshua Carter

Joshua Carter He/Him/His

is a sociology major and political science minor from Brooklyn, New York. As a photographer, working under the name of thetruegod on instagram, his work focuses on the urban environment and the juxtaposition of life at all levelsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;with an emphasis on human life in particular. Focus includes human destruction of our urban places of residence, pollution, our continuous reshaping of the urban environment, and the beautiful complexity of city spaces.

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The decay of urban. Washington DC, 2019.

JUNE JORDAN One of the most widely-published and highly-acclaimed Jamaican American writers of her generation, poet, playwright and essayist June Jordan was known for her fierce commitment to human rights and political activism. Over a career that produced twentyseven volumes of poems, essays, libretti, and work for children, Jordan engaged the fundamental struggles of her era: for civil rights, women’s rights, and sexual freedom. A prolific writer across genres, Jordan’s poetry is known for its immediacy and accessibility as well as its interest in identity and the representation of personal, lived experience—her poetry is often deeply autobiographical. Jordan’s work also frequently imagines a radical, globalized notion of solidarity amongst the world’s marginalized and oppressed. In volumes like Some Changes (1971), Living Room (1985) and Kissing God Goodbye: Poems 1991-1997 (1997), Jordan uses conversational, often vernacular English to address topics ranging from family, bisexuality, political oppression, racial identity and racial inequality, and memory. Regarded as one of the key figures in the mid-century American social, political and artistic milieu, Jordan also taught at many of the country’s most prestigious universities including Yale, State University of New YorkStony Brook, and the University of California-Berkley, where she founded Poetry for the People. Her honors and awards included fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Massachusetts Council on the Arts, and the New York Foundation for the Arts, a Rockefeller Foundation grant, and the National Association of Black Journalists Award. Born July 9, 1936, in Harlem, New York, Jordan had a difficult childhood and an especially fraught relationship with her father. Her parents were both Jamaican immigrants and, she recalled in Civil Wars: Selected Essays, 1963-80 (1981), “for a long while during childhood I was relatively small, short, and, in some other ways, a target for bully abuse. In fact, my father was the first regular bully in my life.” But Jordan also has positive memories of her childhood and it was during her early years that she began to write. Though becoming a poet “did not compute” for her parents, they did send the teen-aged Jordan to prep schools where she was the only Black student. Her teachers encouraged her interest in poetry, but did not introduce her to the work of any Black poets. After high school Jordan enrolled in Barnard College in New York City. Though she enjoyed some of her classes and admired many of the people she met, she felt fundamentally at odds with the predominately white, male curriculum and left Barnard without graduating. Throughout her long career, Jordan gained renown as both an essayist and political writer, penning a regular column for the Progressive. In Some of Us Did Not Die: New and Selected Essays of June Jordan (2002), published the same year of the author’s death from breast cancer, Jordan presents thirty-two previously published essays as well as eight new tracts. The essays examine a wide range of topics, from sexism, racism, and Black English to trips the author made to various places, the decline of the U.S. educational system, and the terrorist attacks on New York and Washington, DC, on September 11, 2001. A Kirkus Reviews contributor wrote, “Some of the stronger pieces here…address the vast complex of injustice that is contemporary American life.” An edition of Jordan’s collected poems was also published posthumously. That volume, Directed by Desire: The Collected Poems of June Jordan (2005), includes various poems published from 1969 through 2001, many of which discuss her battle with cancer. Janet St. John, writing in Booklist, declared the book “a must-read for those wanting to learn and be transformed by Jordan’s opinions and impressions.” Other posthumous volumes include We’re On: A June Jordan Reader (2017). In an obituary for the San Francisco Chronicle, Annie Nakao wrote that the author “left a mountain of literary and political works.” Nakao added: “As I discovered soon enough when I picked up a June Jordan work, its contents could shout, caress, enrage. The thing it never did was leave you unengaged.” In an article of appreciation in the Los Angeles Times following the author’s death, Lynell George explained how the author “spent her life stitching together the personal and political so the seams didn’t show.” George further stated that throughout her life the author “continued to publish across the map, swinging form to form as the occasion or topic demanded. Through poetry, essays, plays, journalism, even children’s literature, she engaged such topics as race, class, sexuality, capitalism, single motherhood and liberation struggles around the globe.” However, Jordan perhaps understood her own legacy best. In an interview with Alternative Radio before her death, Jordan was asked about the role of the poet in society. Jordan replied: “The role of the poet, beginning with my own childhood experience, is to deserve the trust of people who know that what you do is work with words.” She continued: “Always to be as honest as possible and to be as careful about the trust invested in you as you possibly can. Then the task of a poet of color, a black poet, as a people hated and despised, is to rally the spirit of your folks…I have to get myself together and figure out an angle, a perspective, that is an offering, that other folks can use to pick themselves up, to rally and to continue or, even better, to jump higher, to reach more extensively in solidarity with even more varieties of people to accomplish something. I feel that it’s a spirit task.”

Biography of June Jordan provided by Poetryfoundation.org

JUNE JORDAN "Poetry is a political act because it involves telling the truth.Â To tell the truth is to become beautiful, to begin to love yourself, value yourself. And that's political, in its most profound way"

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Voice

By Zipporah Chang

Sometimes I feel as though I could use my voice to conquer the world Other times it retreats, calling all panic to commence Sometimes I feel as though my voice can put together the most beautiful pieces of poetry that one could ever hear Other times I feel as though I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even create a coherent sentence Sometimes I feel as though I have the right to be Other times I feel as though my laughter takes up too much space Sometimes I feel as though to express my grief would be to bring down someone else joy Other times I want a whole storm to ensue by the weight of my emotions Sometimes I want to laugh so loud with my friends that the whole world can hear what it means for young women to take a deep breath Other times I want us to be so invisible to the catcalls of men that we disappear into the whispers of the wind Sometimes I wonder why some women donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t speak their mind and let their voices be heard Other times I understand because I am them: afraid to take up too much space as a young lady Sometimes I wish I could sit however I want

All the time I understand more and more what it means to be a young woman in the world

Zipporah Chang is a freshman chemical engineering major from Bethesda, Maryland and this is They/Them/Theirs

their submission to Sterling Notes.

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Other times I understand why we have to close our legs

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Reality's Lap

By Qibho Intalektual

I fell on reality’s lap

Jostling against this floundering breath The Orient’s running the West Governments crumble ‘cos their Commonwealth is starving the rest The caricature of characters captured when sketching the canvas With my fingertips dipped into a rainbow of emotion Is a painting in motion As the planets in orbit It takes a god, and a drop to fill the depth of the oceans Display the devotion That many men deserve to be showing Yes it is him, the Elohim that has invented the chosen Hereditary notions? Don’t cast away the magic in potions ‘Cos it works if you don’t believe and fear Satan’s distortions Excavating the blistering hot crust of the Earth Carbon-dating rock formations marked with writings afresh Ancient aesthetics of calligraphy assigned to the words Studying the ways of the San, wiping dust from the caves Now take the mirror down so you can stand in front of yourself And let the inner god build up every line of defense Let us read the stars like seekers inside of a maze My brother a compass cannot be the most trusted of friends How pleased that you’d consider to visit this village of ours Who survived the raid of the rebels when militants charged Yanking rape as a weapon then burnt the seeds and crops Now primarily, unabashedly above the average Is how I’m made to be

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If you feel a little chill it is these children with scars

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Other men are not comparison Rivals are rarely common as my concern in speech Avert the siege For centuries that they’ve been planning For continuation’s sake we’ll need a contingency plan Send word to legions in the region, wake the fish in the dams If they kill women and our children it’s gon’ get real as it can Cos when they see us, all they see is just gorillas in camps Bantu Migration, as Hunter and Gatherer I’ve got to feed a few Settle, cultivate the fertile land so I can yield the fruit The Mind is in need of food Knowledge is the pinnacle I constantly read the books A martyr in Timbuktu We do not merely ascend as aviators but levitate as avatars past the stratosphere’s range and radar A raging gladiator I’m serving the Earth’s creator Learning and sharing data Meant to make we greater Tell me more about the covenants The laws that I was confident That I’d abided by the Bible, and the Q’uran I learnt I saw the eyes of age Come forth on tomorrow’s face I have no time to waste Dug open my shallow grave Braid the grass with my steps, transcending time’s illusion Contributing to a manifestation that’s hardly human I’m serving the highest ruling Ploughing using agrarian methods in garden looking An apple doesn’t fall far from the tree And the tree, doesn’t grow far from the seed

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A perfect god is looking

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I’m perusing trough the finest of books and trying to find solutions Found the truth clean Gravitating towards Sir Isaac Newton Violence killed your Leaders Nagasaki. Hiroshima. Kamikaze heroes killed them Kalahari screams for healers To purify the oasis Immortalizing all senses Glorifying no essence Has mortified the soul’s presence So we coalesce With solar gas And pour a glass From these oral lamps Restore our past With morals dense At ease! Now the silence has been broken Yes, the populace has spoken We are the Gods that we have chosen.

He/Him/His

born Qiniso Motsa, is a poet, musician, actor, author, and social artivist with over ten years’ experience in the youth development movement in the Kingdom of Eswatini. Qibho’s style of poetry is a blend of witty, thoughtprovoking and intelligent spoken word. His music reflects honest social commentary ranging from storytelling to skillful wordplay and well-thought out conceptual messaging.

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Qibho Intalektual

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Benches

By Dante Everson

His fiancée would smell the smoke when he came home. After just one cigarette the odor would be woven between the fibers of his suit, pungent tobacco slick and oily against his gums. A single stray wisp would be enough for her to stiffen and scrunch her nose, for her eyes to well up with tears after a third or fourth lapse in his promise. She’d cried when she’d found him breaking the promise for a second time, her voice gone bubbly and broken, violent sobs like heavy thuds. She had cried telling him, “I’ll be there for you no matter what, but you need to stop smoking. Or I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m lost, please, tell me how I can help you.” He bristled at the thought of walking into the apartment that night. He’d much rather choose sitting down in that underlit coffin of a break room, Hatch tossing cookies at his face for hours. He was not going home tonight. He’d find somewhere to stay, a friend’s house, a motel, a park bench, but not home. He stomped out the first cigarette and lit another, ignoring the dull ache just below the band in his wedding finger as he returned to the car and drove with no destination in mind. Fate took him shopping plaza; a frou-frou little expanse flanked by upper-middle class residence. Storefronts composed of artificial acacia and vast panels of glass, the whole area was wrapped in tinsel and covered in pinpricks of red and green bulbs. It was a hallmark of consumerism if DeMarco had ever seen one. The forenoon weather had kept the typical throng of patrons from peering into windows, save for a handful of scarved men and women hurrying through the slush accumulating on the asphalt.

wrought iron bench. The cavity deep within his chest was stove-hot, a dense little incandescent ball rubbing up against his heart that threatened to char his thoughts into carcinogenic crumbs. He felt so amazingly hollow and

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He had slid into the fourth stage of grief when he folded into an ornate

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incredibly heavy all at once, like a vast void was swelling just beneath his skin, trying to end him with a miserable pop. He considered sitting here forever, not returning to the station to retrieve his belongings, not going home to confront embarrassment, just freezing in place. DeMarco’s grief had so quickly stolen into vision that he failed to notice the first occupant of the bench, a lynx of a man with whom he was now nearly rubbing shoulders. The lynx, who for the past few years had been known as Rory, looked around to see if there was anyone responsible for the sulking man sprawled on the bench. There was no one. He observed the man snuff his cigarette out in the snow and deftly produce a new one from the inside of his heavy woolen overcoat. He set the stick alight, folded his elbows onto his knees, and sunk forward with his palms cradling his face. Rory, whose mother had taught him better than to just sit back and watch while another man cries, spoke up. “You good?” DeMarco’s head sprung, surprised to hear a voice so close to him. And what a voice it was, silken but firm like a well-meaning promise. The man in front of him was dressed in a grey turtleneck and jeans. No coat or boots to protect his earthy skin from the elements, just a ski-cap and a pair of some of the thinnest gloves DeMarco had ever seen. A book was unfolded in his lap. Little snowflakes struggled in the web of his coarse coal beard. “Yeah, no I’m good.” He paused to reconsider, wiped the returning tears from under his eyes. He managed a little what are you gonna do? shrug accompanied by a nervous laugh. “And you? You seem pretty unprepared for the weather.”

earlier that morning. “Oh, no don’t worry about me. I grew up in Maine. Winter here’s nothing.” DeMarco sniffed. “Maine. Never been. What’s it like?”

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Rory looked down at himself as though he’d forgotten how he’d dressed

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“Boring.” That got a laugh from them both. A silence formed between them as Rory’s eyes guided themselves back towards his book. “I was laid off.” A beat passed as DeMarco wrung his hands. “Fired, I mean. I guess there’s a difference.” He was talking fast, words stiffened by the limp cigarette dangling from his mouth. “I guess it was my fault.” The words came out as cold and vacant as the winter surrounding him. Rory didn’t misstep. “Work troubles, I feel that. You holding up alright?” DeMarco pressed himself for the right words. “Yes. Well, no, not really.” He took out another cigarette even faster than he had produced the first. Then, through a puff of smoke: “I just don’t know how I’m gonna go home tonight. Tell my wife I lost my job. And that I started smoking again.” “It’s only going to get harder if you put it off. Like ripping off a band aid, heals faster the sooner you get to it.” A sad smirk crossed DeMarco’s lips. “You’re not wrong, But I really wish you were.” A sigh. “The things I saw in there, man. The little tricks that they play to cover their asses. Directing attention away from the real problems.” His gaze grabbed Rory’s. “Maybe it’s for the best that I’m out of there.” DeMarco could tell that Rory knew he was trying to convince himself. Rory noticed the suit and tie peeking from the man’s overcoat. “What’d you see? Embezzlement, insider trading, any of that?” He managed a chuckle cut with a grimace. “Not exactly.” He flashed his badge at Rory, quick and rehearsed. “I’m a cop. Was, a cop.” DeMarco saw Rory’s face fall and instantly regretted showing his badge. The man beside him had stiffened. He had killed the conversation, its soul fleeing into the blanket had wrapped around the entire plaza, flattening everything in its presence. There were no car horns or excited shoppers to distract from the silence, just the two of them sitting bone-stiff, suddenly hyper-aware of the other’s presence. DeMarco felt the blood creep back into his face, turning

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air. DeMarco felt his insides squirm in the quiet that followed; A broad

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the tips of his ears into fire stoked needles. After a while, Rory spoke up. “I think I’d better take off.” DeMarco’s arm shot out in front of him. “Wait before you go, you want a cigarette?” He held one out between limp fingers. “I’m not really supposed to be smoking anyways.” DeMarco suddenly remembered what time period he lived in. “I’m sorry if you don’t smoke-” Rory froze, shock spreading out over his face. The look quickly warmed, however, and he eased back onto the bench. “No, no, I’ll take it. Thank you.” DeMarco passed the lighter - chrome zippo - over to Rory. He took a long pull, longer than DeMarco’s first drag, and sighed. “It’s been a while.” “Were you trying to quit? I didn’t mean to pressure you.” “No, it’s all good.” He blew out a little smoke ring that wavered and collided with snowflakes in its short life. “It’s just that they banned cigarettes where I was sentenced.” DeMarco said nothing, but the widening of his eyes was an easy view to his inner thoughts. Rory’s looked straight ahead towards the green bordering the plaza. “Yup, Acaciawood County Correctional was not too fond of cancer-sticks.” He stole a glance at DeMarco. “Sorry again about that bad day.” DeMarco gave his best shot at hiding his surprise. “Yeah, well, it happens to the best of us doesn’t it?” “You know, in all my years I’ve never had a cop offer me a cigarette.” DeMarco breathed a long, heavy sigh. “I’m not a cop, remember? Just a normal civilian.” He stuck out his hand. James DeMarco. Jimmy, if you’re feeling friendly.”

Dante Everson He/Him/His

is a novice writer and a lover of all things fiction.

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Rory smiled. “Rory Harvey. A pleasure to meet you.”

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This Ain't Gon Work By Aaron Oates

“This ain’t gonna work.” The two men stood silently for a moment, allowing the echoes of the words to resonate between them. They continued looking out unto the partially decimated forest, as water began to collect in the younger man’s eyes. “Now look, sir, we’ve done the work for you the best we could. I told you last year we met we might have a problem if the rains got too bad.” The old man looked on. His dark grey uniform blended nicely into the black backdrop of the forest. As he spoke his hand moved instinctively towards the insignia on his shoulder. “Now, hold on Henry,” the old man said, “we told you last year this wood needed cutting down, rain or no rain. Circle’s cutting down on tribe disobedience this year, been happening too much as of late.” The young man licked his lips and said, “We had a long winter this year, rains came too strong for us to get this side of the mountain fully. We can get it next year easy Joe, I promise.” “We need the lumber now.” “Please Joe.”

“Please!” “Now don’t you get tight with me or you’ll both get it. That’s not my problem, we

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“No.”

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said clear it and it's not cleared." They walked back to the village in silence, the young man weeping quietly and the old man looking forward. As they moved into the village the other men gave way for them in the street and avoided eye contact. The young man’s wife greeted them anxiously. “What? Oh no Henry, this can’t be. Oh no,” She said. Quickly the young man grabbed the bawling woman as the uniformed man went inside the house of the young man. An infant dreamed quietly on the bed not having heard the old man enter. There was a stillness in the old man’s mind and mouth. There are some things too terrible to mention in words that exist within the hearts of men. Quietly the old man removed his revolver from his holster. The woman screamed.

He/Him/His

is a third year Biology major from Nashville Tennessee.

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Aaron Oates

NIKKI GIOVANNI Born Yolande Cornelia Giovanni. Jr, in Knoxville, Tennessee, Giovanni was the younger of two daughters in a close-knit family. She gained an intense appreciation for African American culture and heritage from her grandmother, explaining in an interview, “I come from a long line of storytellers.” This early exposure to the power of spoken language influenced Giovanni’s career as a poet, particularly her sophisticated use of vernacular speech. When Giovanni was a young child, she moved with her parents from Knoxville to a predominantly black suburb of Cincinnati, Ohio but remained close to her grandmother. Giovanni was encouraged by several schoolteachers and enrolled early at Fisk University, a prestigious HBCU (historically Black college or university) in Nashville, Tennessee. A literary and cultural renaissance was emerging at Fisk, as writers and other artists of color collaborated in cultural projects that explored and delineated the possibilities of Black identity. In addition to serving as editor of the campus literary magazine and participating in the Fisk Writers Workshop, Giovanni worked to restore the Fisk chapter of the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). Giovanni graduated with a B.A. in history in 1968 and went on to attend graduate school at the University of Pennsylvania and Columbia University in New York Giovanni’s first published volumes of poetry grew out of her response to the assassinations of such figures as Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, Medgar Evers, and Robert Kennedy, and the pressing need she saw to raise awareness of the plight and the rights of Black people. Black Feeling Black Talk (1968) and Black Judgement (1968) explore Giovanni’s growing political and spiritual awareness. These early books, followed by Re: Creation (1970), quickly established Giovanni as a prominent new voice in African American literature. Black Feeling Black Talk sold over ten thousand copies in its first year alone. Giovanni gave her first public reading to a packed audience at Birdland, the famous New York City jazz spot. Critical reaction to Giovanni’s early work focused on the revolutionary attitude or tone of her poetry. “Nikki writes about the familiar: what she knows, sees, experiences,” Don L. Lee observed in Dynamite Voices I: Black Poets of the 1960s.”It is clear why she conveys such urgency in expressing the need for Black awareness, unity, solidarity… What is perhaps more important is that when the Black poet chooses to serve as political seer, he must display a keen sophistication. Sometimes Nikki oversimplifies and therefore sounds rather naive politically.” However, Giovanni’s first three volumes of poetry were enormously successful, answering a need for inspiration, anger, and solidarity. She publicly expressed feelings of oppression, anger, and frustration; in doing so, she found new audiences beyond the usual poetry-reading public. Black Judgement sold six thousand copies in three months, almost six times the sales level expected of a poetry book. As she travelled to speaking engagements at colleges around the country, Giovanni was often hailed as one of the leading Black poets of the new Black renaissance. The prose poem “Nikki-Rosa,” Giovanni’s reminiscence of her childhood in a close-knit African American home, was first published in Black Judgement. The poem expanded her appeal and became her most beloved and most anthologized work. During this time, she also made television appearances, later published as conversations with Margaret Walker and James Baldwin. In 1969, Giovanni took a teaching position at Rutgers University. That year she also gave birth to her son, Thomas. Giovanni’s work shifted focus after the birth of her son and she made several recordings of her poetry set against a gospel or jazz backdrop. In addition to writing her own poetry, Giovanni offered exposure for other African American women writers through NikTom, Ltd., a publishing cooperative she founded in 1970. Gwendolyn Brooks, Margaret Walker, Carolyn Rodgers, and Mari Evans were among those who benefited from Giovanni’s work. Giovanni also began to articulate a global sense of solidarity amongst oppressed peoples of the world; as she traveled to other regions, including the Caribbean, her work evolved to consider issues of diaspora. As she broadened her perspective, Giovanni began to review her own life, notably in Gemini: An Extended Autobiographical Statement on My First Twenty-five Years of Being a Black Poet (1971), which earned a nomination for the National Book Award. Throughout the 1970s and 1980s Giovanni’s popularity as a speaker and lecturer increased along with her success as a poet and children’s author. She received numerous awards for her work, including honors from the National Council of Negro Women and the National Association of Radio and Television Announcers. She was featured in articles for magazines such as Ebony, Jet, Harper’s Bazaarm, seven NAACP Image Awards, the Langston Hughes Award for Distinguished Contributions to Arts and Letters, the Rosa Parks Women of Courage Award and over twenty honorary degrees from colleges and universities around the country. Oprah Winfrey named Giovanni one of her “25 Living Legends.” Giovanni has even had a species of bat named after her, the Micronycteris giovanniae. Giovanni taught at Virginia Tech during the tragic shooting in 2007 and composed a chant-poem which she read at the memorial service the day after. Of the poem, Giovanni said in an interview with the Virginian-Pilot “I try to be honest in my work, and I thought the only thing I can do at that point—because all I knew was that we are Virginia Tech. This was not Virginia Tech.” “Writing is ... what I do to justify the air I breathe,” Giovanni once wrote in Contemporary Authors. “I have been considered a writer who writes from rage and it confuses me. What else do writers write from? A poem has to say something. It has to make some sort of sense; be lyrical; to the point; and still able to be read by whatever reader is kind enough to pick up the book.”

Biography of Nikki Giovanni provided by Poetryfoundation.org

NIKKI GIOVANNI

â&#x20AC;&#x153;There is always something to do. There are hungry people to feed, naked people to clothe, sick people to comfort and make well. And while I don't expect you to save the world I do think it's not asking too much for you to love those with whom you sleep, share the happiness of those whom you call friend"

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CON TEST WIN NER

teen girl stranded in what was once paradise, calls for help By Nyah Hardmon

He stands on one side of desert. I on the other. Miles of sand between us. This be how we live now. He calls out to me. But the wind chops up his sentences into bite-sized pieces. I think We’re breaking up. There’s no wifi in the Sahara. He says he’s thirsty So I point up to the palm sprouting from my hips Even though we both know my fruit no longer quenches his thirst Even though we both know he’ll ignore me anyways. And so instead We sit in this silence. Heavy as his breathing. Heavy as my chest. And when it rains, Only then do our eyes open Our heads tilt back Tongues out toward sky Like And we drink. Together. Kind of like the way it used to be.

Nyah Hardmon She/Her/Hers

is a freshman journalism major from Fort Lauderdale, Florida. She enjoys both written and spoken word poetry.

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This be our hallelujah

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Old Whales

By Jana Ross

He brings me many gifts So many I have to bury I didn’t know this would be a bride’s welcoming When he asked to marry When I forgot to find my gifts I worry about their pasts And wonder if another unearthing is soon to come Bury his shovels in the snow and mud And I realized in the rain Shadows grow from their pain So, I love them like old whales Blinking slow in cold water Feeling numb to piercing javelins Finding cement I can shovel in

She/Her/Hers

is a poet and current English major at Howard University from Los Angeles, California. She likes plants, tea, reading, and being surrounded by art.

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Jana Ross

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Learning to Fly By Darrica Mann

It’s like the bar is too high Or I’m too short They say the sky is the limit but whenever I try to excel, my lacking drags me down I wonder what it feels like to fly... Does it feel like freedom? Does it feel like control? I bet it does. I bet it feels like everything in the world was made for you. I bet it feels like toes sinking into sand. I bet it feels like power. I bet it feels like God. I bet...I’ll learn one day...

She/Her/Hers

is a junior community development major from West Palm Beach, Florida. She has always written poetry, drawn, painted, and found artistic ways to express herself. This is her first publication.

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Darrica Mann

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A Letter to a Mystery Boy By Sade Johnson

It’s a shame to say I never got to see your face. It’s such a shame. It was particularly dark that summer night and the city had yet to commission for a street light to be placed down 8th Avenue. Since it was so dark that night, I kind of wanted to ask my cute new co-worker to walk me home, but my pride wouldn’t let me. I couldn’t seem too interested, so I set out for home alone. Little did I know, I didn’t need a man for potential protection; you were with me the whole time. While I was treading those dark Harlem streets, my eyes dead set on the light coming from the grocery store across the street from my apartment building, you were with me. That whole time, I had this feeling I wasn’t alone and it made me keep my eyes dead set on the light, walking the same route I always take at a hastened pace. I kept looking towards the light, but shadows are what I should’ve been watching. How foolish of me! Not once did it occur to me to look back into the darkness, where I might have gotten a chance to see you. How foolish of anyone to not look back, even with the eerie sense that they’re not alone. The darkness did nothing but amplify your presence. Against my better judgment, I refused to look at you. Did that anger you? Provoke you? Or were you just so inexperienced at this kind of thing that you couldn’t tell I felt you? Or did it not make a difference? We almost went that whole night strangers to each other but you couldn’t have that. Just as I reached the light, I let out a sigh of relief because your lurking and ominous presence was gone but it was only to be replaced by the physical confirmation that gentleman because instead of leaving me with a memory of your face, or the smirk your kind usually gives, you left me your hands. To this day, I still feel the long bony fingers that were attached to your rough, slender palm. I still feel every finger and your uninviting grip. So since you could never

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you were indeed with me that whole time. It’s clear that you’re not a proper

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quite understand why her daughter rambled on and on about those beasty hands, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll file you away with the other mysteries. Regrettably, Your first prey

She/Her/Hers

is a Junior English major and Sociology minor from Harlem, New York. Writing is how she forces herself to deal with emotions or thoughts she otherwise would put off as crazy or unbearable.

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Sade Johnson

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LUMIĂ&#x2C6;RE, LUCE, LIGHT By Azura

You, full of light, your incandescence, a conflagration placed in Me, in the absence of light, a despondent darkness. Within me, you burned. Something like an inferno, Difficult to grasp, even harder to endure. But from the merciful slumber did you awaken me, dear. You engulfed me, You took over hesitantly, My body, my soul, Consumed by the flame that is you, But you did not fully take over, no. We merged; You put your light in my darkness but allowed us to flow Separate but equal. Yin and yang. In every darkness there is light, But in light, there is also darkness. I became a shadow, But your light was strong. I absorbed your light, I let you glow. The goal was to imbue you Till I felt you diffuse. But eventually, impelling your light into my darkness was a mission you pursued.

My darkness became like moonlight, A melancholy opposite to your coveted radiance. In the crevices of my spirit did you make your way,

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So, I embraced it.

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Sterling Notes The scarlet glow within me, around me, That I exude. Until, We became one. Light and even more so. The blaze smoldered, The trails in the wind like a sweet ambrosia. Wherever we went, we left such an impression. One where our ardor was asphyxiating. A passionate everything. It shines like a beam, A light almost blinding, Overwhelming in its power. Something only, we could handle. What we have, What we are, Is more finite as the cut of the sharpest diamond, But just as unclear as sight through the densest of clouds. We learn every second and grow amongst the roses on the wall. We turn one into many. Together, we flourish.

I stayed up to watch the sunrise. The brilliance and calm of the most powerful orb of fire, Rising once more to bring a peculiar sense of joy. The smaller stars of the coming morrowâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; The twitter of the dawn chorus, The waking moments where everyone is at peace, I could not help but think of you. My never-ending glow.

Azura

She/Her/Hers

is the pen name of Oyin Olagbaj, she writes as a release and a means of getting a story or idea out of her head and onto paper.

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The refreshing air of a new beginning,

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Untitled By Adjzi

O you cupbearer! With your wine refresh me I’ve been sober too long, from this release me Your glance has destroyed me and made me anew Your fragrance into Majnun has transformed me In your eye I see the end of my languor From heedlessness by your touch awaken me ‘Neath starlight take me to the lovers’ garden That the distraught gale’s melody might calm me I extend my goblet to you so be kind By your jug with the Friend’s face acquaint me Adjzi is your disciple ‘till the last day Upon this forsaken path of love guide me

He/Him/His

is a junior psychology major from Washington, D.C.. He follows the Islamic literary tradition, where writers of poetry use pseudonyms when publishing their work.

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Adjzi

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Blue

By Carmiña Junípero

You told me once that your favorite part of a book was the dedication. I saw one addressed to “all those who work to protect the ocean.” And since the night we met on the beach, you always loved the deep blue sea. I was just about to buy it for you when I remembered that we broke up 3 months ago. I guess I still carry us around like the necklace you stopped wearing. Do you ever hear me choking? Can you tell I’m still drowning? Or have you stopped looking into the distance, altogether?

She/We/Hers

reflects very specific moments in this thing we call life.

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Carmiña Junípero is an artist of sorts who would prefer not to be known at all. Her writing

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The Thought's Peak By Jade Madison Scott

I think, if I be so lucky to return, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll take your colors and knead them in my soul. I want to carry you everywhere. I love you, I think.

She/Her/Hers

is a writer from Tampa, Florida.

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Jade Madison Scott

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When You Went Away By Nadira Jamerson

When you went away They cried for me They brought me food We had a funeral “I’m sorry for your loss” But they did not know that you were still here Inside of me… …I took a token from the service Diced it up like tomatoes… …I didn’t add any seasoning Or any oil I just wanted you… …I thought that it would taste sweet From the way you used to smile But my tongue is covered in saltiness… …I thought it would remind me of our morning kisses But it just reminded me of eating chicken…

She/Her/Hers

is a writer who describes her writing as “spooky romance” because most of her stories deal with death in relationship to or as a consequence of love. Her earliest memory of writing is creating short stories with her grandmother, and short stories remain her favorite.

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Nadira Jamerson

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I’m Almost Me Again, She’s Almost You By Maya McCollum

The first time I see her it's among the sand dunes. Her skin glows in the sunlight, glossy lips sparkle, sunglasses hide her eyes. The sand tugs at her curls in the wind. It has been nine days, eighteen hours, and 43 minutes since you left the house. I think about it in passing. I walk up to her, offer my hand, my time, my energy. She smiles. She’ll go home with me just like the woman from yesterday, just like the woman before. They all have your smile but none of them have your laugh. Maybe this one will stay. Her name is Ruby. She’s across from me at a restaurant table covered in white, her leg rubs mine. She takes my hand, her grip is soft, nonjudgmental. “Lots of baggage, huh?” She asks. I nod and she laughs again, a little too high-pitched, mocking, but not mean. “Me, too.” She says. Her teeth seem sharp in the candlelight, her eyes, no longer covered by round bug-like sunglasses, glint with a mischievousness. She will go home with me. I can see the intent from the way her lips hang her fingers, painted a dark maroon, wrapped delicately around the stem. Women like me hardly ever get to have the rough kisses against the wall of a bathroom at 2 A.M. You hated them; you hated most things I did to you, to be fair, but you hated rough kisses and the way my hand would grip the

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on the wineglass. I assume she can read mine in the way I watch her lips,

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back of your neck. Ruby gives little huffing breaths when she gets the chance to breathe. Her smile is so bright, her hands almost burn as she pulls me closer. There is something to be said for how I love sunshine women and you hated that I loved women. That is what this is about, isn’t it? Spite? I loved you but you hated that I could love her too; you hated that I refused to conform to what you thought a woman was. They say men love their mothers, and I was never your mother. You left the building we built our love out of and yet you still hang in my mind, I still hang in yours. Was it the control? The lack thereof? I hate wondering where I went wrong with you. Because was it me as I am? Or was it you not being able to make me into what you wanted me to be? I ignore the messages from you I haven’t deleted as I kiss her. More ultimatums from you for me to get you to return to the space we made. She ignored them too when she put her number into my phone. She didn’t ask me if I’m sure before she kissed me. I just had to say yes once. I feel almost like I’m betraying her, thinking of you when I’m with her, but what I feel for you is not love or lust, I don’t know if it ever was. I feel protected in her arms, her lips are soft on my neck, she asks me if I’ll be free tomorrow to go to the beach. I tell her yes, once.

Maya McCollum

They/Them/Theirs She/Her/Hers

is a budding film maker, playwright, and gay podcast host from Atlanta, Georgia. They are currently studying around the globe to continue to craft their skills within different frameworks, perspectives, and techniques.

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Later, weeks later, she’ll ask if I’m free. I’ll say yes, once.

SONIA SANCHEZ Poet, playwright, professor, activist and one of the foremost leaders of the Black Studies movement, Sonia Sanchez was born Wilsonia Benita Driver on September 9, 1934, in Birmingham, Alabama. Her mother died when she was very young and Sanchez was raised by her grandmother, until she too died when the author was six years old. Sanchez eventually moved to Harlem with her father, a schoolteacher, in 1943. She earned a BA from Hunter College in 1955 and attended graduate school at New York University, where she studied with the poet Louise Bogan. Sanchez also attended workshops in Greenwich Village, where she met poets such as Amiri Baraka, Haki R. Madhubuti, and Etheridge Knight, whom she later married. During the early 1960s Sanchez was an integrationist, supporting the ideas of the Congress of Racial Equality. But after listening to the ideas of Malcolm X, her work and ideas took on a separationist slant. She began teaching in 1965, first on the staff of the Downtown Community School in New York and later at San Francisco State College (now University). There she was a pioneer in developing Black Studies courses, including a class in African American women’s literature. In 1969, Sanchez published her first book of poetry for adults, Homecoming. She followed that up with 1970’s We a BaddDDD People, which especially focused on African American vernacular as a poetic medium. At about the same time her first plays, Sister Son/ ji and The Bronx Is Next, were being produced or published. In 1971, she published her first work for children, It’s A New Day: Poems for Young Brothas and Sistuhs. Sanchez’s other work for children include The Adventures of Fathead, Smallhead, and Squarehead (1973) and Sound Investment: Short Stories for Young Readers (1980). As William Pitt Root noted in Poetry magazine: “One concern [Sanchez] always comes back to is the real education of Black children.” Sanchez’s work for adults is similarly committed to radical politics as well as visionary imagery. The author of over sixteen books of poetry, Sanchez has also edited several books, and contributed poetry and articles on black culture to anthologies and periodicals. She is one of 20 African American women featured in the interactive exhibit “Freedom Sisters,” at the Cincinnati Museum Center. An important and influential scholar and teacher, Sanchez taught at Manhattan Community College, Amherst College, and Temple University, where she was the first Presidential Fellow. Her many honors and awards include the PEN Writing Award, the American Book Award for Poetry, the National Academy of Arts and Letters Award, the National Education Association Award, and fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Pew Arts Foundation. She has received the Peace and Freedom Award from the Women International League for Peace and Freedom, the Pennsylvania Governor’s Award for Excellence in the Humanities, the Langston Hughes Poetry Award, the Robert Frost Medal, the Robert Creeley Award, the Harper Lee Award, and the National Visionary Leadership Award, among many others. Summing up the importance of Sanchez’s work, Kalamu ya Salaam concluded in Dictionary of Literary Biography: “Sanchez is one of the few creative artists who have significantly influenced the course of black American literature and culture.” In an interview with Susan Kelly for African American Review, Sanchez concluded, “It is that love of language that has propelled me, that love of language that came from listening to my grandmother speak black English… It is that love of language that says, simply, to the ancestors who have done this before you, ‘I am keeping the love of life alive, the love of language alive. I am keeping words that are spinning on my tongue and getting them transferred on paper. I’m keeping this great tradition of American poetry alive.’”

Biography of Sonia Sanchez provided by Poetryfoundation.org

SONIA SANCHEZ "I write to keep in contact with our ancestors and to spread truth to people"

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CON TEST WIN NER

The Boy and The Rig By Joshua Carter

and remember it when youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve aged. It is precious; donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t waste it. Washington DC, 2019.

Joshua Carter

He/Him/His

is a sociology major and political science minor from Brooklyn, New York... see full bio on page 20.

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Youth is a beautiful thing to which no one holds chief possession. You must cherish it when you have it

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Pork, Beef, Salt

By Lauren Simone Holley

The beginning of my new life started on the bus. It was Sunday. Though my feet were swollen, and I could feel the baby madly turning somersaults in my stomach, I was made to stand on the bus. He had taken the crowded bus’s sole empty seat and jeered at me when I asked if I could sit. I got the expected response, a huffed storm of: You don’t even have a job. You sit and do nothing all day. I work my ass off to provide for you and I can’t even sit down after a long day of work. You want everyone to feel sorry for you. He didn’t even look at me when he spoke. I can’t remember the last time he looked at me.

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An unseasonal heat wave and the jerking motion of the bus only enhanced the nausea that was so common for me in my current state. We just needed enough meat for one sandwich. I offered to make him something else, anything else. I offered to order pizza, a luxury that I knew we couldn’t afford but that I knew would make him happy. He wanted a roast beef sandwich. There would be no more arguing. I begged him to let me rest but I wasn’t allowed to be left home by myself. He was embarrassed to take the bus, but we had no choice because the car was broken down. I had long outgrown embarrassment, long outgrown shame. He had grabbed my hand so hard it left bruises and when the lady at the deli looked at me with concerned eyes all I could do was smile. His hand was around my waist, a gesture that an untrained eye would view as loving, domestic, normal. Even when he held my hand, as he did whenever we were in public, I knew that he meant: you belong to me. I collected the roast beef from the bespectacled deli worker. Roast beef was Charles’ favorite food. He liked simple foods, meat and potatoes, no frills. He liked to joke that his food pyramid only had three layers: pork, beef, and salt. My hands shook as I reached across the smudged glass of the counter. The lady gave me another look, her hazel eyes glassy and knowing. Charles was now rubbing my stomach, looking at his muddy shoes. Though he never looked at me anymore, he was always watching. What

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would I have done if he had not been there? I couldn’t afford to think such silly things. The bus was less crowded on the way home; Charles let me sit down this time. When the bus made its way to our stop, he brushed past me, rolling his eyes as if he was annoyed at the effort it took me to stand up from my seat. “Hurry up,” he sneered as he huffed his way through the sliding glass door of the bus. He snatched the packet of lunch meat from my hand and began making his way down our street. “Charles, wait,” I begged. “I’m trying to get home so I can watch the game,” he said without looking back. He was now rounding the corner towards our street. “Now that just ain’t right,” an older lady said to me once my husband was out of earshot. I pretended not to hear her. What if someone on this bus knew Charles? They would surely tell him that they had heard me speaking poorly of him. I kept walking. She tugged on my purse strap, halting me. I felt her slip something into the back pocket of my jeans. This had happened before. This happened all the time. Cards slipped to me during a hug or a handshake, in the women’s restroom at a restaurant, at the doctor’s office. It was best to discard them, drop them right in front of the offeror, as if to say, “I am fine and safe. You have made a terrible assumption.” It was better to eat them, feel the waxy paper tear between my teeth and disintegrate on my tongue. It was better to leave no evidence. I would never call one of

When I got home, Charles was already sitting in his recliner. I made him his sandwich. I watched him throw it away after taking two bites and then heading out the door without explanation.

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those stupid hotlines.

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As soon as I heard the screen door slam shut, I called my older sister, sobbing. It was nearly four in the morning where she was. She was studying abroad in China. She went to college. She didn’t get pregnant at seventeen. My family’s golden child. I called her often. She picked up rarely, my sister. She was busy, my sister. That night, Katie picked up the phone. She was short with me. I pictured her lips drawn into a tight line. I felt her scorn from across the globe. “I’m sorry but this is the life you chose.” I left her blubbering voicemails all through the night. Reggie, Charles’ younger brother, came into my room told me to shut up. He didn’t want to hear any more noise from me or else he would tell Charles that I had been crying. That was okay. I had learned to cry silently. I had mastered silence. My days ran together. Charles came and went. He left wreckage everywhere. On my face, with his hands, through the walls, with his boots. My weeks ran together. Our six-month wedding anniversary passed without notice. My stomach continued to swell. I found out his baby was a girl and I cried because I pictured her, small and helpless with my own hooded eyes, my own crooked nose. My months ran together. Katie turned twenty. On the birthday of my older sister, I went into labor. Charles was at work. He would see the baby later, he said. As soon as the nurse handed me my daughter, I thought of the old lady on the bus, thought of the card she handed me, the card that I had been carrying around in my pocket for months. I thought of all the moments before, a collection of almosts. I was right about myself, I will never call one of those hotlines. I would do something else, something equally as terrifying. I could build something for would never be my sister, but I could be me—once I found out who that was. No more would I be the girl with the bruises and the hollow, scared stare. I pictured the dark, Charles' shaped shadow shifting, parting, leaving

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myself. I would never be Katie, accomplished, worldly, brilliant. I

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me bathed in golden sunlight. I looked at the baby I had just birthed. She deserved better. She deserved more. I inhaled. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Excuse me, nurse. Can I ask you something?â&#x20AC;?

She/Her/Hers

is currently studying English with a concentration in creative writing at Howard University. She enjoys writing about women's relationships with their worlds and their selves, drinking iced coffee, and complaining about being single on Twitter.

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Lauren Simone Holley

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1926-2005

By Jade Madison Scott

John Fowles, You absolute Unit. Lyme-lived, Long-live The king of fiction. A prince of prose. Just one more man, One more dead man, One more dead British man As good as it gets, really. So the good did go And go and go But gone is not an option For this magician, Magus, For we? We collect his books And the memories he left there. Those soft, sordid, sarcastic memories. Oh, and how sweet those memories be. Like plums and figs and all the other sad things that those people eat in Britain.

She/Her/Hers

is a writer from Tampa, Florida.

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Jade Madison Scott

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Inheritance

By Danielle Knox

My mother’s voice carries the weight of catacombs Unending patchworks of decay buried Beneath tones of indifference Pushing unmarked graves deeper and deeper Desperate to bury the inescapable fumes of rotting flesh Pale and distended cavities that swell, burst, and Make words sit heavy on her tongue But I’ve come to unbury my dead To walk through the unlit tunnels To gather the scattered bones of discarded corpses To wash and wrap them against the warmth of my chest A soft requiem for those Whose mangled flesh birthed fertile ground My voice a monument to the dead things that feed it

She/Her/Hers

is a Howard University Alumna and prospective graduate student from Prince George's County, Maryland. Danielle enjoys writing and the comforting company of her friends and niblings.

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Danielle Knox

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Februrary 26, 2012 By Darrica Mann

I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of...pain... The United States of blood, I mean. The United States of war, is it? Or maybe the United States of hate? I’m not sure...I mean who could call it, really? When the lines of polar opposites are blurred like those famous red and white stripes in an open flame. Love or hate White or Black Up or down Dead or alive... No one could really tell the difference. Especially when the so-called “pure and good” are committing murder. Murder. The streets...the concerts...the hospitals...the churches...the classrooms... Tell me, who could really tell the difference? Where the color of the water dripping from the faucet matches the skin tone of the hand that shuts it off... Disappointed, no doubt. Could you even tell the difference? When the “man” in the house on the hill who shouts, “build the wall!” doesn’t even recognize that the walls around him were built up by the tired and overworked and beaten and tortured hands of men And his daddy. His daddy, too. ...You get the picture.

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who look like my daddy.

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But could you tell the difference? When three-year-olds the color of anything lighter than sand spend their days playing with toy firetrucks in their backyards while caramelshaded children are kept cold and alone in cages near an imaginary line that separates “ruins and slums” from the so-called “land of opportunities”. Yeah...okay. So, what do you say? Is it pain, blood, war or hate? Head down to a Martin Luther King Boulevard, Drive, or Road ...and you’ll see. But, could you really even call it?

She/Her/Hers

is a junior community development major from West Palm Beach, Florida. She has always written poetry, drawn, painted, and found artistic ways to express herself. This is her first publication.

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Darrica Mann

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Mother May I?

By Phyllis McElroy

Mother may I learn from you? May I sit in your company? My I ask your tales? May I grow to be like you and dare to imitate you? Do I have your permission to admire you? If so, may I also ask your attendance to my triumphs so that I may impress you. Mother please, not for me but for you! I want you to see all of our labor, hard-work, and victories. Grant me these curiosities, Mother. For I, your child, only have but a lifetime to thank you and you have but a short moment to see my work. Mother, of all your gifts, your greatest was your essence, and this is my pledge: Your legacy is mine to uphold, and I declare in this moment I will never disappoint you.

She/Her/Hers

is a senior English major sociology minor from Chicago, IL. She has submitted a tribute piece to honor Diahann Carroll in response to her passing.

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Phyllis McElroy

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Mother Earth's Cries By Olabisi Bello

With pure excitement coursing through my body, I welcomed the first step on my fertile, untainted soil. The rivers sang, The animals celebrated, The winds danced. Energy moved through every fiber of my being. We made him feel at home, Brought fruits to his feet, Sacrificed ourselves to satisfy his hunger, Pointless struggles for an ingrate. Greed is the real evil of man. He took and took and took. We gave and gave and gave. We couldn’t warn him to stop, Tell him we only had limited supplies. He only got cockier, Pouring oil in my rivers, Shattering my ozone layer into pieces, Killing the last generations of my animals. Someone please stop him! Help me! Save us! The rivers don’t sing anymore, The animals have gone quiet, The grip of man is suffocating our lives. His eyes are blinded by greed and he is on a quest to end me. But if I go down, I’m taking him with me.

Olabisi Bello She/Her/Hers

is a freshman chemical engineering major from Nigeria. She is a writer because she loves being able to communicate and impact people with her written words.

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The winds no longer have music to dance to,

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Catch Again By Kela B

“Don’t fall!” Samad started, fumbled his lighter, and whipped his head around to see Simone stepping barefoot on the darkened balcony. She grinned at the annoyed glare he shot her as he pocketed the lighter, a single huff of smoke falling from his lips. “Jesus! Don’t creep up on me like that. I thought you were asleep.” “I was. But I woke up.” She scooted up next to where he sat on the railing and leaned against it, taking a deep, exaggerated sniff. The look Samad gave her this time was simply unsettled. “What are you doing?” “Secondhand smoke,” she explained, inhaling again. He clicked his tongue and snubbed the cigarette, ignoring her cry of protest. “No. You’ll ruin your streak. What is it, six months this time?” “That’s plenty long.” Simone pouted, slumping over the railing and watching morosely as the wasted cigarette tumbled into the darkness below. “And I got caught before I could actually smoke anything! Maybe if you tried it,

Dramatic as always, Samad thought, rolling his eyes. She was obviously baiting him, but he didn’t humor her. “I’m not the one who spent the past two years in a hospital.”

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you’d understand my agony.”

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At that, her grin fell. “Well, that might have something to do with it.” There was total silence then (that is, except for the chirping of the lone cricket somewhere in the grass below which apparently had a sense for dramatic tension). Samad sighed sharply, turning slightly to look at Simone. Her gaze was pensive, fixed on the distance where the gently-rolling ocean reflected the sliver of moon that hung in the sky. “Sorry,” he muttered. She smiled wanly, her eyes flicking briefly to his before turning back to the waves. “It’s fine. You’re not ready. I get it.” He wondered vaguely if he should be offended by that. “Yeah.” They fell silent again. Simone chewed her lip and Samad swung one leg idly in the air, watching her from the corner of his eye. Something was weighing on her, he could tell; it was probably the same thing that had woken her in the first place. “Do you think we could ever fall in love?” The way Simone asked was sudden, although the words themselves were not. Samad exhaled softly through his teeth, raising an eyebrow as he looked sidelong at her. “Is this our new ritual or something? You asked me that two weeks ago,” he said. “Yeah, well, I thought your answer might’ve changed.”

“Because,” she said lightly, turning her head slowly to regard him with eyes that were suddenly, unnervingly sharp, “you’ve run into Sayyidah since then.”

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“And what makes you think that?”

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Samad’s breath faltered in his throat. He recovered quickly, but it was too late; she had noticed. He knew she’d noticed by the way her lips pursed, by the shadow that descended abruptly over her face. “How do you know about that?” he asked carefully, his eyes not quite meeting hers. (After all, there was no point in lying now that he’d given himself away.) Simone made a low noise that nearly passed for a chuckle, scrubbing her hand across her face. “What?” he asked. “I wasn’t completely sure until just now. Kudos for not lying to me, though. I probably really would’ve pushed you off then,” Simone replied. There was a tense, ugly pause. Simone cut Samad off quickly when he opened his mouth to reply. “No, no, I’m sorry. That was bad. Sorry,” she continued. “No kidding,” he said, ignoring the flash of hurt still simmering in his chest. “You need to work on that.” “I know.” She grimaced and swiveled to face Samad fully, moonlight gleaming in her eyes. “I just ...it’s just Sayyidah. Even talking about her just puts me in a Bad Place.” She spoke the phrase as if it were a proper noun, as if it were something extant and not just a piece of memory. She’d said it the same way years ago, too, when she’d been so obsessed with chasing ghosts that she’d nearly become one. I’m just in a Bad Place right now, okay? she’d say, dragging in another lungful of ash from the cigarette clenched tightly in her fingers. Its light danced in her eyes. I’ll get better when I find her, I promise. I promise.

For a single, horrible instant, he nearly wished that Sayyidah hadn’t been

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(He was so tired, back then. Tired of chasing her chasing Sayyidah, tired of having to hold Simone together when she was so bent on tearing herself apart. Tired of not knowing how to help her. And now here she was, sticking to her promise, and in an instant Sayyidah threatened to undo all the progress they had made. Again.)

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faking her death. The thought was gone as quickly as it came, but still it churned his stomach with guilt. Thankfully, Simone didn’t notice this. “To answer your question, Selene told me. She said it was only you who talked to Sayyidah, though. Said you followed her through a portal or something.” Simone was biting her lip again, her trembling fists curled tightly where they rested against the wooden railing. “Tell me, Samad. Did you ask her?” He wanted to smoke so badly right now, but he held himself back (for her, he reasoned, and not because his hands were shaking so badly he feared he’d drop the lighter for real this time). Simone’s eyes pierced through him, an echo of that dark, haunted look from her youth swirling in them. “Tell me,” she repeated, her words sinking into the silence and stillness, “why she did what she did.” Samad took a deep breath, closing his eyes. “Simone -“ His eyes snapped back open when fingers suddenly pressed into his arms; he found Simone’s wide, imploring gaze much closer than it had been, her warm breath hushing softly over his cheeks. She was close enough that, if he wanted, he could close the distance between them — but not in the way that mattered. That realization was enough to keep him still. “I have to know,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I have to know why she put us through that.”

her wrists as he gently removed her hands from him. He gave her a small, pained smile and clasped her cold hands in his, trying his best to still them. “She didn’t tell me,” he said. Simone’s tight, dogged expression softened in

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She was slipping. Samad steadied her as he always did, his hands firm on

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surprise, and he pressed on. “I lost her in the crowd before I could get to her. I didn’t have the chance to ask.” He watched as Simone’s shoulders slumped, her head bowing until her chin rested against her chest. He waited as she struggled to pull herself together (because she didn’t need him to do that anymore, at least), but made no move to drop her hands. Finally, she sighed and looked back up, her face cleared of its shadows. (Or most of them, rather. Some would always cling.) “Sorry,” she mumbled, turning her hands in his so that their fingers could tangle together. “I just kinda assumed you got to ...yeah. Never mind. I guess there are just some things we aren’t meant to know.” “Probably,” Samad agreed, sighing inwardly in relief. He suddenly felt exhausted; unbidden, his mouth stretched wide in a noisy yawn. Despite herself, Simone smiled and chuckled, finally releasing his hands and moving back towards the door. “C’mon, it’s gotta be past midnight now. We should get some rest.” Her tone was faux-jovial, her voice still strained. That was okay. In the morning, she would be happy again. He’d make sure of it. Samad slid down heavily from the rail, wincing as his knee cracked. Simone’s laugh this time was a little more genuine. “What are you, fifty? That was loud!”

Simone shook her head with a theatrical sigh of disappointment. “Weak. Even for you, that was weak.”

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“Maybe it’s just my bones getting tired of your nonsense,” he retorted.

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“I’ll work on it.” He made his way over to the balcony door, pausing when Simone stopped under the threshold. Her back was to him, her edges framed by the yawning darkness of the kitchen. “How did she look?” Her voice was soft, uncharacteristically hesitant. Samad was quiet for a long moment as he debated on how to answer. Either way, it would hurt. But the truth would hurt less. “Well. She looked well.” He hesitated briefly before speaking again. “She’s the spitting image of your mom.” Simone’s head dipped slightly, her whole body wavering in the doorway (slipping again, he thought); then, she gathered herself again and straightened, nodding once without looking at him. “Good. Now let’s get some sleep. Hope this place doesn’t have bed bugs like the last one.”

She/Her/Hers

is a lover of creative writing. Now that she is in university, she wants to indulge in writing the way she did when she was younger.

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Kela B

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Protective Style By Jana Ross

She is growing her hair like a blanket around her body Moss Woman hangs her head in a river Her lover who watched her looks hungrily “Can you give me a thousand stands? That is but a limb to a tree” “No,” she replies, if I do, I shall bleed So the lover looks at the ground and rips up vines and leaves “I build my own”

But every handful of Earth, Each taking of life, Put a pain in her side Until she was curled around her crown And when the lover returned, Proud of the mimicry, Viewed not the limp body of the Moss Woman But instead, where she laid, a great Sycamore She had turned into a tree

She/Her/Hers

is a poet and current English major at Howard University from Los Angeles, California. She likes plants, tea, reading, and being surrounded by art.

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Jana Ross

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