Typoetic.us Presents: Digging Deep, Facing Self - Special Edition #1 by Typoetic.us

III | TY(POE:TIC)US SPECIAL EDITION #1

Contents A Memory Lauren Ash

The literary journal that explores poetry and all its faces. July 2014 Ty(poe:tic)us explores everything that is poetry. From featuring poems from emerging and experienced poets, to hearing stories and theories about poetry and the life of a poet, typoetic.us aims to show the world how important poetry is to not only its participants, but also its spectators. The idea of typoetic.us is messy, unintentional, and as beautiful as a flower. It stands out for its beauty and for the close relationship it has with the poet. It is everything that poetry is and isn’t (though the “isn’t” is not necessarily incorrect). It’s a typo waiting to happen. Editors Christina Rodriguez Christine Coonrod Ahmani DoDoo Laneice Garner

info@typoetic.us COPYRIGHT © 2014 Ty(poe:tic)us. All Rights Reserved No part of this magazine may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever (beyond copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the United States Copyright Law) without permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

The Appointment Amy Lee Czadzeck

Goodnight, Nobody Annette Estevez

Comrade Dorothy Santos

11.

1. / 2. Hokuma Karimova

Sacred Bitch Maiga Milbourne

15.

Family Portrait Katherine Webber Verse Tina G.

16.

. . . . 17

Glances Lauren Ash

18.

Landscape Lisa Smith

When Your Mother Tells You... Sabina Ibarrola

The Revolution Will... Sonia Guinansaca

Hollow Air Malaika James

Gorgeous Nightmare / Sad Clouds Morgana Phoenix A Mercy Sabina Ibarrola

24.

Aretha & George, 1987 Bilen Berhanu

Not Guilty Tina G.

I Only Have Sap For You Annette Estevez The Meadow Anita Brown Phoenix Raidah Shah Idil Beat, Beat Melinda Gonzalez August Sun Qumyka Howell

28.

29 30..

V | TY(POE:TIC)US SPECIAL EDITION #1

IV | TY(POE:TIC)US SPECIAL EDITION #1

Contents Ignit Dorothy Santos

32.

Dishonorable Discharge Raquelle Mayoral

Express Bus: A Short Story Katherine Webber

#rishilife: Tales from the Office Bilen Berhanu

Blaze Lisa Smith

Capping the Little Joy Gieser Malaika James Canoe Melinda Gonzalez

41..

Repent Christina Rodriguez Split / Messy Morgana Phoenix

40 41

42.

Griots Who Couldn’t Tell Their Own Stories Christine Coonrod 45 Watch Her (for my momma) Bilen Berhanu

I Am From Dior Vargas

47.

Mis(s)taken Sex Raquelle Mayoral

Atlas Laneice Garner

The Star Sutra Melinda Gonzalez

If You Know Nothing Else Shalay Kimberly

Evocation of the Devine Feminine Qumyka Howell On Writing Esther Mngodo Untitled 1, 2, & 3 Annette Estevez 32 / In Some Moments Shalay Kimberly

57 58

Gangs & Dreamers: The Immigration Debate Qumyka Howell

Opening on Your Closing Melanie Laura

Calling Cards Sonia Guinansaca

Home / A Homage to Her Aisyah Shah Idil This is the Blue Malaika James

Parade Morgana Phoenix 42 She Is Shalay Kimberly

67 68

69.

71.

Damn Subway Lamps Qumyka Howell Chronicles of Last Name Sonia Guinansaca things remembered Ahmani DoDoo

Circus Dior Vargas

Poet’s Corner

52.

Song Open Melanie Laura Marriage Bed / Barb Lisa Smith

Contents

75 76

In July 2013, three of the Typoetic.us editors took the first session of an online writing course called Digging Deep, Facing Self - a 30 Day intensive writing course designed to uplift, heal, and transform women into their boldest selves led by Caits Meissner.

ty (poe:tic) us

This resulted in a journey that has transformed a number of women in the past year from writing only to themselves to writing to the world. Caits has had participants from all over the globe, even expanding to live form through the #GrowFierce reading series in New York at La Mama Galleria and Bluestockings Bookstore. Digging Deep, Facing Self has grown into a community where women feel safe to not only share their work, but their lives with each other. If it wasn’t for DDFS, Typoetic.us would not be here! When I was looking for associate editors for the journal, Ahmani and Christine were the first ones to apply. Along with Laneice, Typoetic.us’ third associate editor, we are blessed with the trust of poets from all the world to showcase their work. I gained the confidence to start this project along with others through the love of this community. I gained so much through the decision of taking one course including additional writing opportunities and a couple of friendships that mean more to me than anything else in the world.

it’s a typo waiting to happen

Special Edition #1: Digging Deep, Facing Self July 2014

In honor of connections, womanhood, mind blowing creativity, and the woman who leads this movement, Caits Meissner - we are excited to present work from 28 women who showcase the essence of Digging Deep, Facing Self. This special edition of Typoetic.us celebrates Digging Deep, Facing Self’s first year of life. May this community continue to grow in number and in strength to teach women all over the world to live their lives through the pen and beyond.

www.typoetic.us facebook.com/typoetic.us twitter.com/typoetic_us ty-poetic-us.tumblr.com

Thank you to all the women who contributed to the issue, to my editors for doing a fantastic job of pulling all of this together, and to Caits for creating the DDFS course. To find out more about Digging Deep, Facing Self, visit www.caitsmeissner.com/course. With love and poetry, Christina Rodriguez, Editor-in-Chief Ahmani Kay, Associate Editor Christine Coonrod, Associate Editor Laneice Garner, Associate Editor Design & Layout: Ahmani DoDoo

Sprawling female body fallen leaves meet inner earth.

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s something how I can only seem to remember a bright light above my dorm room sitting on top of a wooden loft

This ground is not barren.

with the silver blade I pulled out of my razor and my shaky fingers

Disassemble autumn purple skies turn gray on gray.

with chipped orange nail polish pinching at my right brown thigh tearing the flesh apart slowly and painfully

The only way out of winter is to go in.

until I start to see the redness spill I made one long line

Gripping pain exchanges a cold handshake with the protective cage of my heart.

that faded away to a deep purple and in time healed on its own like other things.

She writes a diagnosis: barren-hood.

The Appointment

by Amy Lee Czadzeck

And I lie still under the covers of my dreams.

A Memory

by Lauren Ash

medusa on one wrist a gnome on the other your earrings dangle they sway, jump, and bobble as you speak She asks who as if names

eagerly sharing your ideas of

will make skin familiar.

female subjectivity, objects of desire weaving your listener through complex

Bare bones try

theory but oh so simply

holding hands. Glasses clink or crack in their place, where breaking apart is a celebration

you do it, you explain it all so easily

Goodnight, Nobody

by Annette Estevez

your personality shines like KC hilites turning pitch blackness into daylight your voice, blaring light

We canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell

your eyes, command attention

the difference

your hands, well coordinated

nobody makes.

motion orchestrated well with your words

Comrade

by Dorothy Santos

your speech, a revery in language

brought back to analog in real life, i read expressions on your face far better than some glowing screen filled with text

walking with a straight back shielded with an armor of knowledge, theory, and experience you are well protected even when your wounds show

your synapses fire rapidly words flow freely, they don’t dribble clumsily but they ease into my ears like a favorite melody activating latent thought

your awareness, consciousness your intellect, wittiness your languid speech, melodic deliver the most complex ideas, simply

on a pristine, sunny day

your eyes lay on me you remind me constantly to break free from patterns to throw myself, back first

into an ocean of abstraction your presence reminds me to remain calm in order to float

you help me see clearly and remind me to appreciate the little things neglected oh precious and lovely, you are

you are the godmother to my afterthoughts a candle in blackout a corkscrew bulb a firefly

you bring me back to me remind me, it’s okay to have a voice I don’t need permission to be the womyn I think people want me to be

Two grown men are penning dog in the yard to hose her bloody ass. She hid after the birth, soaking in her own blood and now God has maggots.

Love within, Love unseen. Love divine Love all mine. Love that’s true, Love that’s new. Love that’s real, Love hard to feel. Love yourself! Love is wealth. Love that’s magic, Love’s not tragic. Love is hopeful. Love is full. Love abundant, Love not redundant. Love’s a promise... Love is all this! Love is... me, Love - all I need to be!

And so I feel it, coming on, The energy around me! Sparks of love for art, Curiosity, of being free. To roam the world, to meet, Those we had never talked to. This is the magic of new days, Building bridges to something new. Discovering beauty of existing, Of breathing in and letting go. Not worried ‘bout the highs and lows we ride. For chains will rust, and breaks can loosen. But gravity - won’t let you go. Like memories of past, worries of the future. They are just ghosts who haunt. Individuals who are not present in the moment. To feed off life’s energy. No, they are spent. From stories tearing them apart, From daggers entering their heart, And people walking out and in of their lives, Placing shadows on the real, on the magic they fail to feel. And the beauty that’s inside them. Their selves, the world around. For in the now is when we’re happy.

We spray her with the hose to try to get them off but they’ve burrowed into her skin. We are on a mission to save God and her children. She looks like a wolf, rescued as an abused puppy in the alley. If she gets a toy, a sock-- let her have it. We wrap her in a blanket and rush her into the back of the car to the allnight animal clinic. They assess which nurses can handle her case. Some say no to vomit, diarrhea, some to maggots. Who will treat God? Back home, we’ve set up a box, with a ticking clock and hot water bottle wrapped in flannel. God’s children are blind, as they squirm on top of one another and towards false mother.

Sacred Bitch

by Maiga Milbourne

The separation has to continue. The bitch is on hard drugs. She can’t breast-feed her young. We bottle feed the children while they suck air, endlessly distressed. We change the bottle to find heat, to substitute for the warmth of the living. In a another room, stalking, gnashing teeth, the dog angrily heals. We fool her into accepting medicine through rare meats. I am scared of her. I am scared to be the boundary between her and her young.

1. & 2.

by Hokuma Karimova

Eventually, God’s raw ass scars and heals. Her prescription runs out and we stage a reunion, God and her children. God never trusts us again.

Church bells sing the national anthem

The men in my life are drawn in fine lines

First numbers and words

carefully crafted details with HB pencils

The new generation from my womb

looking back at me through the clear running water of time

What will you contribute?

sitting in weathered, weary chairs

A new life babbling for more

life worn into the creases

Asking myself

pronounced jaw lines share stories, lessons, laughter

Why is your belly so different now?

tufts of hair from the ears listen endlessly

Wounds heal from the inside out

used hands quivering around the coffee cup

Any day now

show me how

Dollar shampoo The pursuit of purpose Daily shopping lists

The women in my life are tapestries of colour bright splashes tantalising the senses fading when I reach for them warm embraces seasoned with perfume before the lessons, the listening the doing hover in the background provide warmth and nourishment

Family Portrait

by Katherine Webber

Lesson plans and budgets The oil in palms blessing foot steps Poetry

Verse

by Tina G.

We the authors of experience I Digest Every Word Accepting the theme of my day Wisdom between roots not always clean And somehow not every word comes Out right So What will my verse be?

Tall Piney woods Sway full-bodied in the wind. The shadow of steeples always near The dull, low, murmur of the prison count siren: A giant blowing into an old glass bottle Day in, day out surrounded by walls The forest The church And prisons.

He knew something was wrong. He could tell by the look of my eyes. My gaze was off, distracted. Lost in some foggy forest

Preachers and Teachers are my people Baptists as far back as I know Proud people Godly folk Not ashamed of the twang in their voice, Or the Bible that nuzzles up with the gun in the glove compartment.

miles away. “Please talk to me,” he replied. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” was my response.

together. No longer talked. No longer held another. I was tired.

that’s suffucating my spirit. I know what is coming. It’s time.

by Lauren Ash

small smile, but it doesnt touch his deep brown glassy eyes. He softly closes the door behind him.

Only the boy was beaten But all were terrorized.

That was the last Isaw of him. A glance of glassy brown eyes and a sad smile. However me, curled in a blanket wont be the last glance he sees of me. For when he returns, he’ll never look at me the same again.

Glances

A small boy Beaten, switched, belted, and probably worse. Did Grandad quote scriptureWhile he whipped? Or did the demons of his past take hold And his eyes glaze over The way my father’s later would? Did the churches know? Were there whispers at potluck? Is that why he fled? Church to church, Was help ever offered to the poor wife? Or did she have to make the bed, She chose to lie in?

“Im headed out for a bit,” he says. “Goodbye” I reply. I get a

So one day in Paradise I guess I’m doomed to walk Side, by side, The miserable manipulative Abuser That created my father.

How often was my father told to, be a man! As tears from pain welled in his eyes?

So very tired. Of everything.

ding my face catching my tears. This feeling, this aching feeling

You don’t have to be re-baptized That’s not strictly allowed Once saved always saved Whether you like it or not

Poor wandering preacher with A young wife who left school to fulfill her duty Two small kids: boy, girl Three hostages bound by holy matrimony.

But everything wasnt fine. We no longer smiled and laughed

I sat on the plush sofa curling up with the thick blanket pad-

But Baptists are if nothing else, One’s to forgive (on the surface at least) Recommit to God Atone, atone, atone for their sins For all have sinned Fallen short Wanting, glory.

Landscape

by Lisa Smith

I wonder what advent was like in that house What did the Christmas tree look like? Did my grandma play piano and warble Oh Holy Night, While my dad and aunt hung the ornaments? Father was always warm on Christmas morn. We’d eat the sticky buns my mom had prepared… Sometimes though I’d see sadness in his eye He did his best to break the cycle, I think. Sometimes it’s hard to say that: My sister, screaming, beneath his bare back Him holding her with one arm, And the ping-pong paddle Breaking across her back. Not all his demons were mastered. I was so young; My fear was born that day.

This will not be a poem about how people have fucked us over A true liberation allows you to MASTURBATE No shame “I touch myself” is empowering “Unapologetic” about my clitoris “Si se puede” with your sex toys

When your mother tells you that it would be better if you weren’t here, this is what you remind yourself: That in dreams we get a whole ‘nother life while the body is sleeping. That making tea is a form of alchemy.

Relax Touch yourself

No quickies Let your fingers run up and down

That my closet is full of femme hand-me-downs.

Slowly

That there are many ways to be mama’d.

Explore your body

That they say Athena chopped her way out of her father ’s forehead with a battleaxe,

Lube, spit or oil Reclaim your body

The Revolution Will... by Sonia Guinansaca

Be satisfied

That she was born a grown woman.

Multiple orgasms

That grit makes the pearl, not the other way ‘round. A true liberation starts with each Stroke Slow And fierce

When Your Mother Tells You That It Would Be Better If You Weren’t Here

This is how a revolution starts The revolution will cum!

by Sabina Ibarrola

You’re such a gorgeous nightmare like flower petal healing poison extract tips There are no pictures

Like sin from angels lips

of you. just

My comforting torture Lust

memories of your

in the depths of my Stockholm syndrome

small toothed smile

Gorgeous Nightmare by Morgana Phoenix

Tangled in the web

& hum of speakers

of our oxymoronic similarities

blown out by dilla tunes

With you

6 a.m. Mamouns falafel

I am broken whole

vintage shops on Melrose Avenue.

Screaming mad in a dream

Those same places now

I don’t want to wake from

wear an empty air walls still stand & the space between is a question or answer that falls on the ear

Hollow Air

I see pain painted

by Malaika James

As clouds on the azure sky I hear mothers sob

like extinct language.

As bombs drop and sons die And the worst deaths aren’t physical

Time without you is a void

It’s when your boy returns home

twilight zone of clock

And you know he’s no longer whole

ticking loud with absence

He left part of his soul

each second a reminder.

On the battle field In desert sands

You abandoned us

Or in the bullet

frozen in the cups of acrylic paint poured for the masterpiece that never left your mind.

Sad Clouds

by Morgana Phoenix

In the body Of another mothers son Who sobs into her hands Hands she once used for safe return prayers Are only good now for catching tears They fall like raindrops From sad clouds

error and trial she is well-versed.

When the river was deep I didn’t falter 7 year old body housing too many secrets dancing fancy free bathed flickering lights of MTV. Latch-key key of roosevelt island with a pound cake addiction vanilla and butter proof of hate turned inward.

slow-healing wound all winter season of waiting soon be it over

suitcase fragile kind afraid it had been lost (or broken) in transit

an airstream trailer silverfeather bird gilded corner of heaven. a refuge a mercy after all these years

children packed house packed everything she knew packed west-headed night-blooming flower slowly opened dusk fades to blueblack:

the softest part.

When the mountain was high i still believed

Aretha & George, 1987

A Mercy

by Sabina Ibarrola

33 year old body dreaming of netela ena gabi rain falling on blessed terrain weathered hands coaxing raw cotton. Rhythmic genius of home-spun looms baby-wearing, modesty-claiming, warmth-creating fabric of my dreams the very interior of my heart.

by Bilen Berhanu

When the valley was low it didn’t stop me, no no I once saw love blazing through my father’s aching bones wrapping my broken mama in light it burned up his fear and helplessness. Her skin glowed from the inside erasing pain etched in her face I come from this love in their eyes, I am love too. I knew you were waiting. I knew you were waiting for me I once saw truth blood-letting of a thousand papercuts twisting organs and unraveling DNA it sat outside and inside of you. Generational trauma echoing in the chambers of your heart your soul is thick with worry who is worrying about you?

Newsfeed is on fire Awaiting an answer Everyone busting out of icons

The thought of you is a force all its own.

My android is wide eyed 4A is cool With the lingering steam

The bottle is full. My glass is always drinking.

From the rice and beans on the stove The baby is growling like a lion But I can barely focus

Take these mangled, mauled vines. Remind them why They will reach.

Even glasses can’t help four eyes to focus Eagle peering simply at this screen Waiting Hoodia covering curious brown skin

We deepen our roots. Head tilts from shoulder toward you Nectar me something sweet like sunrise yawns flowers’ mouths wide open bloom like morning,

Eagle peering on purpose Even though he should have flow away He stayed Following when he wasn’t invited Organizing onesies from zero to nine months Pacifiers sanitized for soothing Taking a dab of baby magic Onto my Palm to get used to What he will smell like

I Only Have Sap For You by Annette Estevez

part me open from this dirt I’ve crawled into.

Sterile air the child if white noise Not guilty His mother The tears I can’t hold back

Oh, how you make death a living thing.

Something in my spirit exploded Like gun shots to his skin His mother Will only have this blood stained goodie yelling between tears to my seeds father She’ll never see her son again

Not Guilty

by Tina G.

the meadow enter the meadow

I am done

no,

swallowing the dust

not as wee, insignificant, embryonic you

of outdated memories

breathe and sigh out

I shake off hot ashes

now,

cast them off my wings

your once companionless self

adjust for the trajectory

must surrender her germinal trifles

of inward flight

to mother gaia soar this essence of yours, odd as it may seem

into blue, coral-kissed

is as eccentric

sky/sea

as it is N O T dramatic now,

The Meadow

by Anita Brown

Phoenix

by Raidah Shah Idil

plunge into barbed-wire mysteries

truly and miraculously E N T E R

and emerge with garlands of seaweed

the meadow

pearls and nimbus clouds I have purged my heart, spirit and marrow filled them with soft swan feathers and welcome the one who haunted me

The bass drum beats and beats Quieting the hum of television screens I sit in silence with my thoughts -Miss him.

Flowers lay in the attic

-Don’t trust her.

In the hallway closet

-Wish I could communicate it better. -I’d kill to protect her.

On the basement floor. Roots pulled and torn, from the earth’s cycle.

I want to escape these cycles of spinning, No more colonial intrusion,

The stench of manure lingers

Bodied contusions, And tears bloodied crusading down my kneecaps. Been reading about love and the law of attraction.

Beat, Beat

by Melinda Gonzalez

Force ripe mangos Preserved in salt

Working towards clarifying my intentions,

Bitter to the taste

But my heart is heavy, mind dizzy with concern for what I have birthed.

Concealing secrets

Has harm come her way?

In sweat pants and oversized t-shirts

What could I do to sway it away?

In the August sun.

If only our words could form phrases, sentences without an assault of loaded pistols a la Sartre. Disappointment washes over, And I color it in gratitude. The goal is for freedom Home, gardens bearing fruit, and I I write poetry for you.

August Sun

by Qumyka Howell

Looking for the “I know” in every eye we meet. Chasing pavements until the rain falls Tasting each drop like sweet nectar Savory juices mixed with her pulp. Hoping he never uses the key to open my bubble gum diary.

I am somewhere between peace and confusion. You are silent, But silence is better than the dissonance that ensues when we speak. The bass drum beats and beats,

Snapping juicy fruit gum Holding her pinky figure into mine Giggling until the street lights come on.

With the hum of cars cruising down streets, And I am left with the loudness of these thoughts turned poetic meditation.

Sipping beer, you showing off a crooked toothy grin Mixed company, wooden benches who knew something would seep through

You don’t have to worry You don’t have to care About proving yourself On two tracks {intelligence} and [struggle] I wonder if anyone has asked you Why is so important to you, you know to be a white woman?

Things that aren’t fun to talk about One was asked how it felt to have a brown girlfriend The Other was asked what it felt to have a white girlfriend The fun stopped between the One and the Other

People think you’re down You gotta pass for coolness You gotta girl with color So different, so exotic

One thought it was cool It was different It was nice, refreshing It was never an option

You poor ignit woman I can’t believe you done asked me that question! You really asked me THAT

Except for this one time but One didn’t really like her

You even had the nerve to To comment on my ink Telling me that I am something Without my Mother

The Other thought it was hard It was challenging It was isolating, depressing It was never an option Until now because the Other thought she found the One But the One made a grave mistake asked the Other Why does it mean so much to be a womyn of color?

I TRY so goddamn hard to listen to YOUR trauma deal with YOUR trauma help heal YOUR trauma

The Other stood, contemplating this question :: Are you serious? You fa real right nah Your dumb ignit ass really don’t know You is so dumb

,you know NOTHING about my | struggle about my | father about my | mother

But the minute I start talking, I’m reminded of the fact that I’m just some angry. brown. girl.

Ignit

by Dorothy Santos

The Other, after moments of thought ...Internalizing ...Processing

...Internalization ...The Other on the [verge] of speech. Spoke. The Other told the One, “I guess it’s just important to me, I don’t really have an answer. Maybe, in the future, I’ll have a better idea.”

I thought you were braver than that Not the archer but the arrow that dreads the enemy Not the grenade but the pin holding us together Not the trigger but the bullet to end it all Win it all Love it all Prove it all – okay For my protection, It seemed your soul’s calling Distance kept us bonded by DNA

Dishonorable Discharge by Raquelle Mayoral

Yet you jimmied the door and freed yourself of the confinement known as too much love Retrieving bits of me through bits and computer screens Never would I think you would be less than gallant Soldiers one day are soldiers always Aren’t they? Maybe the war in my headlines Is a war you’d rather not face

Express Bus A Short Story

by Katherine Webber

By the time the committee meeting finishes after work the local bus has stopped running. Checking my watch I let out a deep sigh as although the express runs every fifteen minutes so the wait is not long, I will have to walk an extra four blocks home. The bus driver does not make eye contact as I get on and swipe my go card. In a hurry to finish the shift the driver accelerates the bus from the stop and I stumble down the aisle into a seat reserved for the elderly. Removing my hair clip my wild hair is released and the curls fall down my back. I rub my temples and wonder how a group of adults with such passion can be so inefficient. Perhaps I can make an excuse for the next meeting. Head resting on my hand the lights kaleidoscope as my eyes struggle to focus on the houses and shops rushing by. The footpaths are deserted except for the occasional late-night runner. As the bus swerves quickly into my stop, I feel like getting off is an imposition. Stepping down onto the street I receive a grunt in response to my thanks to the driver. Putting my purse back into my bag I feel the warm exhaust as the bus careens off. Looking up, the clouds reflect the street lights with some brave stars peeking out, but no familiar constellations. I take a deep breath to fill my lungs with city air. Past front fences my shoes mark my presence on the pavement. The path is worn, with uneven sections and grass threatening the concrete.

As my tummy grumbles I think about what I had for lunch and what Gio might have left out for me for dinner. He will be fast asleep by now but I hope he has left some pasta on the stove. That would be comforting. Apart from the cars whooshing by in a blur the suburb is quiet. No sirens, no voices, no sounds from late T.V. shows, no one watering their front yard. Walking past the closed butchers my wandering mind is brought back into focus as I hear footsteps behind me. Suddenly more alert than I have been all day I concentrate on the sound. Out of sync with mine but the same pace. Not rushing but purposeful. The echo is too clear, too sharp for runners or thongs. My fingers tense, clenching my bag just a little tighter, pulling my elbows towards my torso I quicken my pace. My mind races thinking about who else was on the bus and if anyone else got off. There was a youngish guy sitting a few seats behind me talking on his phone, but he was wearing gym clothes, across the aisle was a tired looking student with bags of groceries listening to an iPod. Was there someone else further up the bus I did not see? Cars flow past. It is a 60km/h zone but most are going faster, rushing to their destination. Two lanes travelling in both directions act as a barricade between me and home. What would happen if I stepped onto the road? Would anyone stop?

The jaundice street lights are not bright enough to differentiate colours. My green top looks brown as I check my appearance, trying to assess how I would look to a stranger, to an assailant. In my tailored office pants I don’t think I am ‘asking for it,’ but what would be the appropriate penalty? Would a judge support castration or could I settle for taxi-fares for the rest of my life? Taxi fares seem fair to keep me out of harm’s way. The footsteps have not got closer, they are still there but they are not telling me anything about the person making them. Walking past houses with low fences there are no lights on behind the barred windows. The houses are set back from the road away from the noise, the passer-bys. One letter box has a faded triangle, once yellow, with a smiling house on it. Previously it has made me smile. Startled, my heart races as a bat shriek pierces the heavy air from within the tree above me. Late summer and the trees are full of flowers and fruit. When we were living in New Farm, Laura and I had a routine of phoning each other as we walked past the empty void of the park after sunset. Our voices loud enough so if anyone was listening they would know we were not alone, someone was waiting for us, someone would notice if we did not make it home. My phone was somewhere in my bag. Torn, I want to call someone but do not want to be seen distracted looking through my bag. There is a break in the traffic and I run across the two lanes, over the median strip to the empty footpath opposite. Looking over my shoulder, as my hand searches for keys and phone, I see a slim woman walking where I just was. Clasping her bag against her torso and her elbows held in tight, eyes wide as wide as a visiting owl she looks back at me. I force a smile, which is more of a grimace, and make my way the last block home. Past the rubbish bins, past the local bus stop, past the red hibiscus, where I sometimes pick a flower for my hair on the way to work, past the neighbour’s over-grown garden. Through my chain-link gate, the squeal of the metal announces my arrival. Home.

Baba carefully pounds fresh ginger

Womanly shape I cannot hide

measures out masala spices

Small waist, an ass that won’t quit,

cinnamon, cardamom and clove

And thighs of mighty thunder.

boils water and milk for chai

See the muscles ripple

He hums a beautiful devotional all the while

Know my strength to crush,

you can’t help but fold over

To lift up!

palms touching, hands at heart in a deep bow of gratitude

You come inside me you will feel The pull, pulse, pulse power of my cunny

Your mind spins power and privilege analysis

The ferocity of my sex strikes with fury

your heart, oh your heart it breaks and cracks open

Oh beware my spirit!

to let it all in

You smashed me sure, But I’ve made myself new.

You look out over the balcony

I am not your crime

Ganaga Ma greets you

a dip wipes cleans your karma

Look! And behold the glory that I. Am. You can’t kill a phoenix

Baba brings your steaming cup

My light radiates

sets in on the table

Hot to touch

a gift, a love, a truth

I roar and claw to stay this life

a shy whisper, “dhanyavad”

The demons on my back make my wings stronger Slow ripples of a wing taking off

He notices the tears streaking your cheeks

to him, to Ganga Ma, to the universe to this moment

Gearing up to soar.

#rishilife Tales from the Office by Bilen Berhanu

by Lisa Smith

Your shame.

swift rapid of icy blue green cool

an offering

Blaze

I may dive down deep and die True. But I will always be, reborn.

I know I am a disappointment. my new penny face has rusted patches where sunlight used to be blurry to me now that girl in the photos where crystal gumballs hang from perfect parted and pink oiled braids.

I miss him, but it does not matter. He does not exist; nor do I. He was all intellect and I too much emotion. Perhaps, we could have met between the half-eaten moon, But he had sailed to other shores.

I locked the door on that dollhouse time.

My boat was tipping slowly in the current.

Swallowed the bug eyed cartoons & pastel dreams, 2 step jingles & pranks like Ovaltine Hid them in my center until i bulged obese. now, everyone hates to look at me.

I dropped my sail, searching, But the shadow of his oars were no more.

He had chosen another star forcing I to wait.

Canoe

by Melinda Gonzalez

I know I will die from this. from the bricks laid on my heart. from the house I built of shame how I tear myself away

I was not very good at waiting, not for him, not for love, not for anyone.

from the little joy gieser that wants to spring from me. I cap it every time I feel it try to release.

The sky was a promise of azure,

I have nothing to give and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not sure why. maybe I should take a sip of myself while I still have time.

I had just hit and iceberg of a storm he wanted no part in.

I gazed at the waxing moon awaiting to be full and raised my sail, once more.

and the wind kissed me. The waves surrounding - tip top tip top The clouds moving - tip top tip top

Capping the Little Joy Gieser by Malaika James

When the Devil’s gone international and God asks for a napkin, you open your palms like the world is a mass - waiting for parts of his body to be placed on your skin. The brushing of a fingertip, the slow smile of an accident quickly fall underneath your tongue as you remember the last time you fell on your knees, the last time the Devil and God crossed paths, as you held parts of the Beloved in your mouth like a benediction. Communion stays in your blood stream, filtering through body during late night reenactment beneath covers of memory.

Where you can count one, two, three... and know exactly what the Devil and God may want of your valves as you close your eyes at night to pray, wiping your mouth clean of declarations. Dear God, today I wrote a poem.

Repent

by Christina D. Rodriguez

I saved it on a napkin for you after the Devil tore my dreams in two scattering forgiveness across your sky ...Now, can I be saved?

You’re ashamed that months later, you still taste the earth that shattered in the outfall of your ocean ridden body that tries to forget that time, waiting for the wind to pass along a ‘peace be with you’ – where kryptonite does not weaken you to the knees.

I would make mixed tapes Back when people used them to Express their feelings

Split like atoms dispersed

Black furniture and Writings scribbled on the walls CDs and records

everywhere and nowhere feeling connected by individuality Feeling closer to creations spark

Sp lit

by Morgana Phoenix

as stardust passes through

A poster that reads: Temple of Hip-Hop Kulture Criminal Justice Turn-tables inside A closet without the doors Neon hotel sign

my body whole and on Gaia’s green carpet I kneel

This was the room of The man who got me into Writing poetry

to bask in holy sunlight thankful for

He would spit lyrics Of, wise men who learned about Law behind jail bars

my blessings god and breath i am a messy bundle of too smart for my own darned good social awkwardness misplaced words gibberish feelings and compassion

Messy by Morgana Phoenix

- trapped within a wide open heart dressed in dreams, broken promises, hopes, luck, and optimism with untamed hair and soul

Men who discovered How justice should’ve turned out For them but didn’t

Until the rest of Society no longer Knew who was helping These lyrics weren’t just Stories he painted because That was his story

i am seeking someone who will love

While rotting away Not knowing when their story Would be known to us

oxymoronic beauty

by Christine Coonrod

Witnesses stating How the innocent harmed them Freeing the guilty

His and other men’s Men he met while doing time All they had was time

chaotic calm

Griots Who Couldn’t Tell Their Own Stories

Innocent victim Proven guilty falsely with Tampered evidence

and endless passion

all of my messy

In boxes lined up Against the dark, covered walls From top to bottom

Or if they’d ever Get out long enough to tell Their story, themselves

1. light bounces off glossy red nails

I am from women Their voices, their struggles Their resilience

matching lips, a perfect pout she has no kinda time for none of this

I am also from men Those who are there Then depart Still leaving part of themselves for me to keep

shoulders square up to hold up crown the cloud of etan smoke almost obscure the jewels

Cursing Yelling These were constantly heard

gabhi clad masses huddle at her door, beg for her eyes

I am from people whose intentions Are not always clear

to land a moment on their faces

I am from words Said in both English and Spanish Novelas on the television With my grandmother â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s translation Throughout Then understanding And finding another language In which to express myself To understand words Conversations not meant for my ears

eucalyptus tree limbs whisper caress her blessed head she crushes a leaf or two

a boiling pot of shiro, sends spatters of qibbe across the tiles she ladles it out gracefully

barely rise above the tall bleached grass the velvety mounds of earth

she tugs at the corners it goes flowing back

by Dior Vargas

I am from faith Believing in a being That will be there when times get rough Trying to remember that God will not Make me endure what I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t survive

we watch the harvest moon

all love bends toward her

I Am From

Watch Her (for my momma) by Bilen Berhanu

Working ever since you can remember Manual labor Anything to put food on the table to provide for your family

But this started even before you had children of your own “Tienes que trabajar bien duro para todo en la vida” Inadequate clothing for the cold weather You do what you have to do Your pores emanating agua de florida Blessing gifts with holy water “Que dios te bendiga y te acompañe” Praying to God for what you want Stopping everything to hear Walter Mercado What does he say for geminis? What does it mean, papi? A guide of sorts to keep you going and learn what might come to you Velas by the front door St. Michael the archangel His sullen face The dog who accompanies him Pray Believe Have faith Work and prayer Seems like all you, we, can do to survive and we continue to

Just look at yourself full strong glowing soul of a person walking around like people don’t notice the sweet, fresh being you are

All this activism It’s for yourself and others to say it’s worth living Strong meaningful confident beautiful strutting everywhere knowing others see the exceptional difference of your figure of your appearance signs of affection and you’re open arms a brave giving woman wanting to show love in return you refuse to let your depression get the best of you getting back up after every fall in life “tenacious” they tell you my momma never taught me to give up you’re a cure taking over every healthy cell that refuses to survive this is you a resilient, enduring being

4. She walks in beauty Seeing the beauty in everyone else Her concern for others is her greatest asset Only seeing the goodness in people Owning herself and her reality

There is something about her Her walk Her posture It sings satisfaction and positivity Her glass half full

desecrated by men

Self care is her priority Because when she takes care of herself she can help others

ice so thick no polar bear can penetrate

and she continues to walk in a way she’s always known

swords & shafts remove all love no feeling left of summer kissing our fleshy hills sweet nectar no longer is produced by our yoni flowers what to make of women with no womb? arsoned with terror Stonehenged decorated with piles of ivory bones caves are more inviting intruders made homes here

Mis(s)taken Sex

in fields of lilies, soft and swaying

by Raquelle Mayoral

they did not heed the pleading screams they held down daughters for their own righteousness they did justice in their minds and turned heaven into the devil’s playground what’s left of these angels are shells of their former selves unlike a butterfly out of a cocoon they are not stunning nor soaring they are scared shitless do not touch her do not touch me we are not yours to touch we are suppose to choose who we let enter our Queendom but somehow a Trojan horse arrived and now we are conquered and defeated and misplaced by those who we knew to be our knights in shining armor

I have weak knees. Bent over. Atlas. Bowing to the fates, Pressure. Obligation. Tribulation.

sewn tight between fearful and fat with palms full of pretty I used to dig my nails deep into my own fists just to feel the dent of it then I traced the lines and found that I had the deepest mouth, the messiest lips

The steaming tar, gravel, and fumes of freshly paved road. I keep trying to gulp air, quench my need for relief. I am in torment, my muscles on fire, heating oak colored flesh to the pigmentation of molten steele.

my beauty took lessons from unapologetic flesh spread open like vulnerability now I hold myself up with heart between teeth and hope on both arms I am the kiss that stays warm in your memories between your left and right thighs my binding molds to bodies I am overcoming and overflowing I will drape all over your outsides

I don’t want to think about what I know I have suppressed. The shadows that are casted in every act of light. Massage my mind, for I am so weary. I want to abandon this world, curl my spine and hug these damaged knees. I don’t have any base strength, my ankles can’t hold the weight of my thoughts or the injustice of my options and swell in protest.

I’ll seep into the crux of your body have you searching my curves and corners just to find the crust of me with widening arms and opening hips have you gasping for my notes my hymns, psalms and melodies

Save Me. This world is synthesizing with my flesh. Large masses merging into my neck, I am losing the ability to look up. Forced to face my weaknesses and shame. Seething.

I cough up sulfur, ashes float from the corners of my mouth. Rabid with abhorrence. DO NOT TOUCH my skin. You will get freezer burn from the amount of Nitrous Oxide it takes to sustain this mortal shell.

by Melanie Laura

I have stopped digging now I’m all folded fingers and face steady looking at before and after looking at I’m ready I’ll be the cure for the crave the wetness, the waiting you will beg for the patience

Bile sets my mouth ablaze with animosity. Smoke from unrelinquished fury, irritates my nose and waters my eyes. I am incapacitated with maliciousness.

Collared to this existence. I encourage you to walk by, by because when I place my arctic gaze upon you, I hope to manifest this hazardous fury upon your being. from the depths of my subjugation beneath this Earth.

Song Open

Atlas

Laneice Garner

bathe in the craving eat everything that tastes like me with bare arms and bibs on drink my sweat like an addict my salt is the line, my taste is the habit gasping for my notes my hymns, psalms and melodies moving in out of moans like more please like Melanie.

The Star Sutra

Through the velvet darkness Camels and cheap beer on my tongue, Bring me back to pain I turn my head but you grabbed me back

by Melinda Gonzalez

In Mixtec, the phrase for love is, “You bring joy to the center of my being.”

The weight of your fat lump body I once loved Grotesque Crushes my breath Vice around my throat I’m forced to swallow

Marriage Bed

by Lisa Smith

There are really only a handful (read: 5 at most) people that, genuinely, make me want to reach ascension. If I, in my most physical presence, do not honor those loves either through careless deeds, words, actions or negligence, could I say I have loved a person ever, even myself?

The struggle and agony inside my body Lifts the curtain

What is the lesson in all of this ego-centric misconnection called love (read: lust and confusion)?

I see my hands bound; A knot at every eight The dearest brown scarf Tiny woven diamond bulls eyes A thousand tiny eyes Witness my torture

I learned, last night, that to love at all, in any way (That is to bring joy to the center of anyone’s being, including your own), first, we must be mindful of our thoughts. All great sages say: thoughts lead to words which lead to actions which become your truth. In loving (read: being confused with) people who held me back from spiritual ascension, I allowed myself to become one of them. In turn, I held myself back from becoming light, choosing darkness and anxiety in thoughts, first.

A thousand tiny eyes Know the truth No black velvet to shield them They saw all Every tear, every plea

Then, I recognized the middle. The start was the birth of a Star. The middle was choosing the Ego (Read: Fool) to guide me. The end result was a Hierophant with scales unbalanced. Heart choosing lust, anger, resentment, cruelty, unkindness.

His eyes once so full of life Make me believe in evil.

So, if instead, I let heart, manifested in the High Priestess and the Lovers, guide me, then, maybe, we can ride on Chariots, making decisions guided by the Self.

A thousand tiny eyes Stare stone silent at my plea

Because I love you.

How many times did I confuse a lack of self-love, self-understanding and insecurity for love? If joy, in its most sacred form (read: spiritual ascension) is the prerequisite for a real/deep (read: loving) connection, then could I say I ever really loved any man?

The safe coat of black velvet washes over me I know I’m not safe, But here, ignorance is bliss

A whimper comes forth Why are you doing this?

How many men have I said I love you to that never brought any joy, except for the occasional chemical-induced, orgasmic misunderstanding of a spiritual connect?

Thus, love, for all of its poetry and song, becomes two souls guided towards Spirit.

Barb

by Lisa Smith

When the arrow pierces deep, soft tissue Hold on. Don’t remove it Or you’ll bleed out. Instead, hold on. Until you can snap off the shaft Let the head remain. The heart will heal around the point Changing the beat forever But forcing it to pump harder.

If ego guides, we are incompatible with joy. If heart guides, we evolve. The choice is obvious, but where does the practice begin? It is clear - forgive others for their transgressions, forgive self for not honoring Self, forgive and move forward. Detach from the need to know, to feel it all, to have concrete answers. If there is joy in the presence of the Self, then you are on the right Path. Love that is not joy in the Center of Being (the Tao of Oneself ) is no love at all. Thus, the lesson - Love is all - forgiveness, ascension, rebirth. Love is the beginning, middle, end, so find your opposites, but let them always ring from a place of Love.

Ase Ase Ire! Is a song Of power She lifts her voice to the heavens

Dearest Shalay, How is it that you’re able to breathe with your heart painted blue? You miss her don’t you? Is that why you cry at night rocking yourself to sleep grabbing at the pain you push away during the day? Beloved you can’t wish to color your world with slit wrist. Open your heart and let the poems bleed truth. You love the birds that sing outside your window on Sunday mornings, and the Opera singer that practices each afternoon. How does she bounce her voice between buildings?

Praise As her shoulders rise to meet the mountains Blessings Opening her arms to greet the mighty wind Her belly dances with the waters Her hips evokes the divine feminine Rebirth is her calling

Love him hunny, and let him be the curve in your spine. You do know it’s quite alright to let go in the name of curled toes and belly laughs don’t you? Best friends do not fall from trees, they do however slip down sides of the universe.

Rebirth of ancestral hymns, in rhythmic time to her feet

They see you with their hands... “Ti Ti I like your earrings” that are now tossed about your room so carelessly yet with such effort. Love blooms in their smiles. Your babies are the ones that love you anyway and always.

Waters quiver

You are whole becoming whole. You were never broken, hold this close when the rainbow is enuf. Tell yourself that you are enough. You always have been.

Wailing, for her sons and daughters

Take center stage, burn sage, dance naked on your hard wood floors, be all of you and none of them, and each day ask yourself how can you love you... better.

She summons the ancestors

Dust unsettles

Evocation of the Devine Feminine by Qumyka Howell

The earth answers, to her plea Calling, the unjust to be just As Flesh feast on flesh To bring peace in every step Ase Ase Ire! Womb men of sea and land Rise to witness The rebirth of one

If You Know Nothing Else by Shalay Kimberly

I am I And she is me A Goddess Ashe!

On Writing

by Esther Mngodo

“So you are a poet?” They ask. I do not know what to say. “Yes” I reply calmly and hope that we would talk about the weather, or something.

I usually say that poetry found me. Although it is hard to say how that happened. I grew up around music and I started singing in a band at the age of nine. By the time I was twelve, I was already writing songs and cultivated my artistic expression in those lines. But poetry just happened. It evolved in me, I guess. I come from a culture where poetry is part of people’s lives but they do not know it. Are we all poets? I do not think so, but we interact with poetic language every day without even knowing it. I come from a place where language is rich and the use of proverbs and riddles is an integral part of it. Yet, their eyes become bigger when I tell them of my occupation. “I am a writer” I say with a tone. That tone I usually have when I am unsure of myself. I can see another question coming, and before they ask, I say: “I write for a newspaper, I am a journalist” . . . “Aha!” Their eyes lighten up a bit with a smile. I already know what they want to say but perhaps wouldn’t, especially since they do not want to be rude. There is no money in journalism, at least not this side of the world. In Tanzania, to survive as a journalist means that you accept an envelope, bahasha, which has money that the source of your story gives you. And in recent years, it means that you demand an envelope from the source in order to write a story. Everyone knows that journalism doesn’t pay the bills, right? So if the employer cannot pay what a writer deserves, someone else should, right? I want to tell them that I am not that kind of a writer, I do not writer for money. I myself do not understand the concept of demanding a bahasha, to publish a story. I write because I am passionate about writing. It’s not that I do not need money, not at all, it’s just that. . . But that’s beside the point. I am a writer! Yes, isn’t that enough? I am a writer! And this is a decent profession, isn’t it? I am a writer! am I not? They ask me what kind of a writer am I, why do I write what I write, how did I start writing and all that. And just as we are about to move on to something else, I remember that I haven’t really told them the whole story of my writing life. I remember that there is a side of me that is still somewhere in the closet. I construct the sentence carefully in my mind and hope that I will say it quickly enough for them not to hear it: “I also write poetry” I say while looking away and taking a sip of the drink in my hand. “Oh you do?” oh no, they heard. Their eyes are all lit up again and they are looking at me straight in the eyes. “Yes.” I say.

“Like a real poet?” They ask. Is there a real poet and one who isn’t real? I do not know. I do not know what to say again… The truth would do maybe? “Yes... I am. . . I am a poet” I say, unable to believe the words that just came out of my own mouth. Women in Tanzania wear kangas, African print wrap-arounds, as part of their daily wear. Most of the time, the kanga has words printed on them. ‘Thank you God’, ‘There is none like my mother’, ‘Marriage is beautiful’, ‘Patience always pays’ and other heartfelt messages. But that’s not the only kind of writings you might find on a kanga. You will most definitely see a lot that have a message for that woman on the next street who just doesn’t get it: ‘My husband is mine, look for your own’, ‘It is none of your business, leave us alone’. This isn’t to say that every woman does this, because I know that I don’t. But for some who find it convenient, especially since we come from a culture of silence, it is a perfect way to make sure the message is sent without any verbal communication. But that isn’t the only poetic expression that is often seen. Unlike places where the youth make graffiti on walls, we write proverbs at the back of a bus or a truck. ‘Do not give up’, ‘Love is like a cough, you cannot hide it’, ‘You might be as slow as a turtle, but you’ll get there’, ‘Education is life’. . . Taarab music is the music genre of the coast. When you listen to it you might feel like it was an extension of the message you saw earlier on a kanga. The songs use a lot of metaphors and personification to speak about love and sex. Yes, mainly love and sex. And in a way, a poet is viewed in the same way, as a person who speaks of love and sex and is very romantic themselves. And if you are not romantic, then you must be a very ‘deep’ person like the legendary Shaaban Robert and write in that rich Kiswahili language. It is not common to find spoken word poets. Most poets, mainly those who use Kiswahili, use more traditional poetry in storytelling, ngonjera. It has a certain rhythm like a song. But spoken word poets are only a handful, especially found in cities like Dar Es Salaam and Arusha. Most of them are also rappers. Rap as an artistic expression has been here longer and has stereotypes of its own. Although one might argue that there is a thin line between rap and poetry, I think that there is a difference. It isn’t just about the beat. And in my view, (contemporary) poets, wana mashairi, have a longer journey to come out of the dungeons, accept themselves as poets and use poetry as a tool for change.

1. The world’s got me on a string It has been a long journey for me to accept myself as a poet. I remember the first time I performed a poem, it was at church in 2010. After the ‘show’, a teenage girl came to me later on and said: “Hey, I didn’t know that poetry could be cool.” She was excited. She wanted to be a poet too. She wanted to be cool. Here I was inspiring someone else but I myself wasn’t even sure if I was a poet, or if I wanted to be one and what would that mean if I was. All I knew was that I loved writing, poems. It took me a long time to come around. After a performance here, and a performance there, people started liking my comments on Facebook, following me on Twitter and calling me a poet. . . A poet! Initially, poetry was mainly a therapy tool to me. I wrote poems for me. Hence, there was a time when I wrote really hurtful, lamenting kind of poems. Lines that sounded like were coming from a person who has overcome a place of pain, but it was the other way round. That place of freedom was like an island that I could see from a far and I only wrote of it looking at it that way, from a far. I felt like I was drowning in my own poetry rather than being delivered by it. This truth was embedded in me for a long time. I knew that one could write from the perspective of the soul which is selfish, and temporal or from the place of the spirit, which is free and eternal. It wasn’t until I understood the spiritual journey – which is an everyday journey - that I was able to allow my writing to move from the goggles of pain. And in a way, I found myself in poetry. And I think that poets must find this balance because words are energy. I know that we write from the mental, emotional and spiritual process within. Am I saying that when you are sad, you shouldn’t write? Not at all. You should. But I think it is important to understand why am I writing, for who and for what purpose. If our words are backed up with energy, what kind of things are they fueling in the world? The perspective from which we write, matters a lot. “So you write about love in your poems?” they ask me with a wide smile, having a sip of their drink, eagerly waiting for a reply. “No” “No?” they are surprised, almost disappointed. “But you must be so romantic”

to loose ends of sun body will burn for words’, mistaking flames for flight

Yours is a gentle darkness, a death metal cover of Billie’s gardenia singing white petal soft

Untitled 1, 2, & 3.

by Annette Estevez

moonglow blues into night falls for your kiss runs orbit around my pulse, my skin knows all the worlds to your lips by heart

3. To the heartbeat drowning in my bathtub, my fingers feel what they cannot save you, slip, thudding bass rafting up the currents of July doesn’t know how to swim past your name passed this

I smile. I give up.

night floating color-penciled

“You are a poet, right?” they want to know.

poems over body pressed

I smile. “Yes, I am a poet”

tying tongue

Ends

to porcelain lifts your forever into my ears swallow this underwater song whole and we hold each other like this

32 years of reflection and not much has changed... My butt still bothers, actually it disturbs my soul. The unevenness of it, it’s like ten bricks stacked up flat and tight against each other as though God is using my rear to play his own personal fleshy game of jenga. I pray for mercy if ever the pieces fall. I turn around hoping to see something different in this revolution around the sun, but alas my thighs are still closed shut keeping all my secrets tucked away. I wonder if they’ve ever spent a day apart, and then I remember my twenties and I thank them for their silence. I’m staring at this thick wall and my hands wander down to my stomach that now drips into two layers with the bottom half threatening to swallow my vagina whole with each step. So this what 32 had to offer? This is womanhood? After all these years, all these stretch marks cascading down swinging breast and across spreading hips. Not quite a waterfall but more like flames lapping at whats left of my sanity. Where is my mind? My spirit is heavy. Self loathing weighs about a thousand lifetimes and I’m tired of holding this around neck. Can I set fire to it all and just be... I don’t want to hate myself anymore, and perhaps that is what 32 years around the sun has to show me.

Heavens sapphire Dipped in blood Soiled in hope Drenched in faith Dreamers of Ellis Island All American undesirables Christian , Jews ,and Protestants clenched documents in hand kneading bread into roses for the dead.

by Shalay Kimberly

Gangs and Dreamers restoration believers in war due to a process unfair

In Some Moments... In some moments...

by Shalay Kimberly

You are easy laughter in the afternoon bouncing off bayous barefoot and free. stripped down to the simplest times that exist in the quiet. You are that sweet spot of comfort all at once southern and gentleman. In some moments... You are musical notes all jazzed out and classic effortlessly hip with the audacious cool of a man who knows himself. You are the perfect riff, the other side of the blues, that one note that makes the song stay with you on long afternoons when the suns gone down. In some moments... You are me, playing hide and seek with my silence all knowing without the pretension of familiarity you are far more kindred than clairvoyant which is why I let you in. We are too much the same and let time tell it we’ve danced before and here we sit now squinting eyes trying to place the space that once existed. In some moments...

Elections align wholesale migration with political party tenements as whisky filled felt pens draw the landscape of immigration reform.

I write things like this to remind me of these moments that are ours and unexplained.

Gangs & Dreamers: The Immigration Debate by Qumyka Howell

DREAMers journey from darker isles under indigo sky wrapped in blood stained cotton imbued with citrus and milk Undocumented Documents hope and faith as they come and run run with sacks filled with a loaf of bread a rose for their mother and a eulogy for their sons They come to Run as Lawyers, farmers, grasscutters, and nannies to your babies. Remembering , the wind cooling their backs Foreseeing a day of fear no more. Gangs and Dreamers eight against nine. The great debate immigration reform a clear path to citizenship is needed as it was once before.

there are bricks between the skin of my teeth my mouth holds all three floors of that old dusty house where you walked in front and I held the furniture we went past my opening up to the attic with dark rose petals drying in the corners nobody knows about the basement that creaks or the mouth that doesn’t speak

I keep returning to that old house but nobody’s in it all that’s left are rough sheets and open doors closing on my clothing now I sleep when nobody’s home praying there are no more openings on my closing

and I’ve moved on from shattering bones not yet showing but I carry your words and welts in my womb look at me, I’m glowing this rage cut me open for my rebirth I used to be asthmatic grew up in the attic used my hands to pray for a closing now all grown up so empathic mostly because of your sickening habits

I was crushed by accidental watching you soil the floor without sorry I am your story I fought fists closed with your violence as I ran out of storage for all this silence you threw me out like attic flowers but the stench was worse than the secret I hid out in the opening till I was crying in roses covered in keep it

nowadays, my house has several doors and sometimes I open them I hold your heart in my haunted hallways but I don’t hold fast or tight anymore pay attention to swinging doors and open floors hold breath when I pass by kitchen tables

I was cloaked in adolescence you were on your way to the kitchen right outside the hits and splits (you never made it to the kitchen) the hard wood still hits but I split longer these days can’t go back there these days don’t really have a place to live we used to sit around the kitchen table you’d fall asleep in your keep it I remember your rage

still I thank you for my listening skills my rage my truth my widening arms my words my womb my leave too soon but I’m giving you back your keep it your cut up corners your dusty doors your promise you won’t speak it

years later I go searching through my skin amongst the dirt and leaves covering my adolescence it seems I am too scared to be soft now I’m just delicate pushed away so many loves now I’m just celibate

Opening on Your Closing

by Melanie Laura

I went back to that old house and found a wall of me slipping through the painted room developing in my weighty womb the doors opened up and held the all of me this is how I learned to love I never thought that I’d forgive but I‘m glad I shed light on that old opening and I am thankful for the gift of closing this is how I learned to live.

There is a home here sunken couch, painted faces beige blurs over greenlit fields, ripe durians rolling on the kitchen floor, beds unmade, fans whirring

Across oceans and land Working to connect one phone line with another Like the umbilical cord of a child These $5, $10, $20’s square cards are more than plastic These calling cards have heart beats

II.

Calling Cards

We survive through phone lines by Sonia A cycle of dialing numbers On the other line waited abuela On the other line waited birthday wishes that you should have given us in person while you ate cake with us But we were here and you were there.

Guinansaca

On the other line we waited For your voice That is all we had My dad waited for you III. He still does How do you dial a love one? When your fingers have worn out from weaving too many memories When your voice has change since the last time you saw them in person Your bones have broken from their absence Your lips have withered Your face is the only clue left of what they might look like now Perhaps it’s best to not look in the mirror Perhaps you are too ashamed of holding on to old memories

IV.

I can still hear Abuelita Alegria’s voice Tell me abuelita how is Ecuador? Yes abuelita I promise to return And then a long pause You hear her shuffling the phone trying to remember which side to talk from She is not familiar with this technology I call it old school, some call it poverty Abuelita’s gentle voice rocks me back to memories of when she carried me as a baby My face lays flat on her back She hangs up And I lay gripping on to her words Trying not to let go V. Never enough minutes Calling cards don’t have heart beats anymore They just hang in the store Teasing you My dad stops at the bodega for other reasons His mouth curls up at the end of the bottle Longing for one more conversation I think he believes that with every beer he gets closer to heaven Closer to her And secretly I wished that was true The phone goes unused like the passport in my wallet No more dialing In his palms rests spaces where my grandma is buried And even then the borders created by the lines in his hands Restrict him from getting too close

Dad wants to hold my hand But mostly we look at each other hoping to find comfort He says I look like abuela

Home

by Aisyah Shah Idil

No visitors Absent grandmothers make for absent fathers, legacies of neglect carved into itchy feet Surpass your elders, sayang, grow taller, score higher breasts bigger / become whiter English silenced us but here it crumbles I laugh at my mother’s misspelled texts discarding what she doesn’t need Mother tongue discarding what her silent father (suits in papaya-tinted Singapore, cricket in rice-paddied fields) Couldn’t. Excuse me, my ancient heart is open. I hold this history in tiny, speckled palms, kiss it, press it to my forehead. There is home here

A Homage to Her by Aisyah Shah Idil

A watering-hole lies on the space between your ears One side, covered in skin Soft and protecting Pale-pink that carries life, browns in the afternoon sun Listens to every word Caresses Flutters like an ageless oak The other side, covered in climbing vines And hurt that Comes and goes in waves Their help-cries ring through your heart With every step they Feel With every step they Care Don’t you remember that you’ve done this before? You’re familiar with healing, with Love growing on the spaces of your thighs Acceptance covering your warm stomach It seems easier then But There is still strength being seen here Your eyes are now too wide to ignore How beautiful it is that you continue How powerful it is that you flourish

This is the blue that you longed for

I the tightrope walker

electric at 6:30 am

you the clown

spilling through purple velvet

I try so hard not to fall

onto wooden floor

measure every step

rise and shine

you entertain with a never ending string out of your mouth

mother planted her voice

continuous spewing of lies

inside of you a birdsong

I’m the spectacle everyone wants to see

to intro the day.

the two headed freak

How did you know that grey skies

step right up

suffocate the pulsating seeds within you? You felt it. You are always feeling.

This is the Blue

by Malaika James

watch in amazement as her two heads conflict with one another you’re the ringmaster

Honor the pulling as the word of God.

facilitating the performance

You are a citrus tree

one wrong move

needing 13 hours of sunslight

slowly tumbling to the ground

water & hugs by the gallon.

I try to reach out for help but catch nothing but air

Pull back your leaves and go dormant

the foggy air

in winter.

I can’t see anything but you

Or, just hop on a plane and skip the whole thing.

then darkness

But always return home.

my corpse another spectacle

These dining room walls embossed with

the sad victim of lost love

masks from Volta stare me down

the performance is over

remind me this walk is ritual.

but there is no longer an audience to validate your pain

Circus

by Dior Vargas

Is this where you get your magic from? These reminders masqarading as interior design. You are the mask, always smiling always aware of your purpose. Never looking back.

She… Is

Do you hear that? Can you hear the drums and horns? Off in the distance, there is dancing and balloons and it is coming this way! That beat - vibrating off my skin Don’t you see the sparkle of brilliant colors in my eyes? My smile? Damn, that parade is jamming! The color-guard is coming in I’m gonna pick up a flag Waving this banner high Stopping traffic while little kids clap along

Hair flowing in dark dancing ribbons across delicate shoulders daring to kiss the small of her back. She stands so tall on the inside it’s almost impossible to recognize her actual stature. The only thing petite about her are those honey colored hands long and slender adding hints of grace to the simplest movements. Washing dishes Braiding hair Carrying baskets of laundry Holding tiny hands She weaves life effortlessly in her breath and her laugh, and in her tears we become whole.

Have you seen me dance to the beat of my own drum? Have you seen the colors I can paint the world in? Have you seen my inner 5 year old and the way she stares in wonder? Have you seen the trail I’ve blazed?

Her cheekbones carry ancestral secrets sitting high and proud atop her soft face, so ageless yet so wise.

And the band plays on…

by Shalay Kimberly

Her skin will never tell her age but her eyes speak of other times, and far away places. She who has been kissed a thousand midnights by youth will always wear like silk the parts of her that are barefoot in Zuni and soaked in

The rain can come and I will dance in it Face turned up Smiling Once I left the shadows and felt the sun I grabbed hold Let it burn as I swallowed one of its rays There is always summer in this heart

She Is

Hawaiian suns caught in an angle of happy. Never adorned in gold she sparkles in silver cascading a light all her own. Proud nose. Strong Back.

Parade

by Morgana Phoenix

Resilient spirit. Oceans of heart, Mother, daughter, sister, Woman. Laid full in claim of herself so she walks that Goddess walk on earth that rises up to bless her feet.

Standing on the platform at Chamber street station. Searching my feet. Noticing the scuff on my new tan boots. Annoyed as if the scuff tarnished my well thought, put together outfit. Boots almost 3 inches high with a tan skirt, just tickling my knee. My maroon sweater hugging me enough to let everyone know I am well endowed. I raise my eyes just in time to meet the stare of an older guy Station lights dim almost like mood lighting to meet my brown skinned tamer. Almost anyone could suit the platform lamps makes everyone a dark skin hue. Even the white dude strumming his guitar looks like the lead from the group Black Star All I know is if I squint my eyes That silver cap look fine! Station lights catching a gleam of his smile as I smile back at him. I try to raise my hand to say hello but stop to catch my stomach of this uncomfortable feeling. As if my gut is try to warn me. His smile looks so inviting so comforting so familiar. I almost lower my hand farther as I begin to tingle. He begins to walk over I breathe slowly he gets closer as we meet with trembling eyes. His smile goes away as did mine. We can’t breath

Finally A quick breathe of words emerges Hey!? Hey Unc?! How are you? Good Good Say hi to your mom. Ok Later Later Then he walks away with a quick step in his feet and I can’t stop the moist kisses. Oh this is wrong, so wrong. Damn subway lamps.

Damn Subway Lamps by Qumyka Howell

There is this thing that happens to you when you attend a school in America You are told to grip your pencil in a strange form So robotic still painful The led penetrates you instead of the paper They forget your small hands can’t be holding up suns this early Feels different from the way your parents taught you how to hold it You are then told to write your name in a certain way A public display of how wrong your parents were And so you begin to erase the swirl your mom eloquently taught you when writing the S But mom forgot to tell you these S’s never make it into history books Teachers now begin the next lesson Because she can’t understand you In between pauses she teaches you how to say your name You can hear the anger in her voice as she takes attendance She wants to skip over your name It doesn’t sit well in her lips You hear her struggling and the other kids hear it to They start giggling and you want to giggle along because How else do you deal at a certain age the act of being “other” It helps that your mom ironed your uniform because that now becomes your armor You grip your skirt as each letter escapes

Chronicles of Last Name

Your tongue no longer moves in the same way Now you bite away any traces of your mother & father You can no longer taste home.... It feels dirty but that’s your new name It fits better on scantron tests

by Sonia Guinansaca

Makes people feel comfortable Makes them think they know you And at the beginning you tried to correct them Sonia Guiñansaca They laugh at you for thinking you knew how to say your own name How silly of you And then they will proceed to ask where the name originates from And maybe you will answer But most times you will close your mouth Holding back Not allowing anyone else to take anything else from you

Same reason you hated parent teacher’s night Not because you were ashamed to bring them Because you don’t want your parent’s to become unwanted objects she keeps locked in her desk You won’t allow your parent’s to be throw in next to a yoyo, or Yugio cards, or BubbleLicious gum Objects she prohibits during school day Objects to be questioned objects she mispronounces But your parent’s do come As 3 of us sit in front of the teacher Me translating, they listen, she talks I don’t know how they feel I try not to make eye contact We don’t make eye contact I just know they come home; my teacher never gets to keep them

1. when your mother takes you to school, the sun is just beginning to steam. she is wondering how her brothers could have forgotten their own children. 2. on the weekends, she drives you to hellshire just so you can eat escoveitch fish, and grind the sand between your toes. she knows that your warm brown complexion means you will

And you begin to taste your mother in your mouth again And maybe years after that Maybe when you are 24 you will have the courage to share your real name No, I mean when you are 24 you will allow people a glimpse into that divine part of you Because it is sacred to know your name And as Warsan Shire would say: “My name doesn’t allow me to trust anyone that cannot pronounce it right” ñ GUIñANSACA Notice the difference in my name

hoard a collection of bleaching creams under a bathroom sink. she watches you pick white flesh from tiny fish bones, tells you your father’s mother carved a home from scaling fish. 3. the first time your uncle takes you to the giddy house in port royal, you remember elmina castle in your father’s land, ships crashing against

5. there is an old photograph of your father chopping tomatoes into a dutch pot in front of his small abode in ghana. you tell yourself he is lonely because he saw his father for the last time shrouded in linen, cold, and stiff at age six. 6. you will never meet your father’s mother. she held onto wounds like secrets. your hands are like hers, they say, built for pounding cassava and picking the bones out of red snappers. 7. the first time you see a book in the ga language, you are reminded that your family has trouble holding on to every good thing. they don’t really own anything. you clutch it anyway.

atlantic waves.

4. the first time you are old enough

things remembered by Ahmani DoDoo

to remember carnival, you are amidst a throng of slaves dancing below deck

sharing secrets.

Lauren Ashley An introverted soul. A nuturer. A dreamer. A lover. A big sister. A yogi. A Detroit native. An avid writer who loves to read; especially prose. Lauren lives for taking photographs, praticing yoga, listening to rain, and trying out new foods. You can find her sharing stories and other random thoughts on her personal blog, Website: withloveelle.com

Amy Lee Czadzeck Amy Lee Czadzeck holds stories of living in the lost and found. On her bedside, live two engraved stones in a nest. One stone says the word “Self” and the other reads “Others.” She believes these are the relationships she must write to and from; meaningful encounters that are incongruent but necessary. You can find her on Facebook at Amy Lee Czadzeck or email her at amyleeczadzeck@gmail.com and she can tell you her secret of what to do with broken things.

Poets’ Corner

Annette Estevez Annette Estévez is an NYC poet. She lives in Queens or in her head or in the breath between your heartbeats. She’s not sure. But that’s what her poems are for. Her poetry has been featured at The Cornelia Street Arts Café, La Mama Galleria, and Bluestockings Bookstore.

Dorothy Santos Dorothy Santos is a writer, researcher, and social justice activist. Born and raised in San Francisco, California, she holds bachelor’s degrees in Philosophy and Psychology from the University of San Francisco. She received her master’s degree in Visual and Critical Studies at the California College of the Arts. Her research interests include computational aesthetics, programming, coding, open source culture and their effects on contemporary art. Find her on www.dorothysantos.com

Hokuma Karimova

Power rising from the Land Of Fire. Burning with passion, curiosity and love. For planet Earth and its people. Power longing for freedom within limits of modern life. And wisdom of enlightenment in face of chaos. My passion/platform to the world: http://saynotofoodwaste.org/

Maiga Milbourne

~ Sonia Guinansaca

Passionate about healthy bodies and communities, Maiga Milbourne is a yoga instructor, retreat developer, avid traveler, writer, activist and suburban farmer. Maiga’s written work can be found on the Operating Platform and upcoming inclusion in the Feminist Wire, Chrysalis Literary Journal, and the print book, The Yoga Diaries. Learn more at www.maigamilbourne.com.

Sonia Guiñansaca is an undocumented unafraid unapologetic queer poet from Harlem by way of Ecuador. Her work is a deep look into deconstructing borders, and blowing up migration discourse so that tiny radical seeds can grow from that gravel. She is coordinator of the UndocuWriting Project at CultureStrike. You can find out more about her work at Undocumenting.com.

Katherine Webber

Malaika James

Katherine Webber hails from Australia, wants to writes in the clouds and dance across the sky. She is learning how to put her heart on her sleeve and is inspired by many of the women around her.

J. Malaika James is a poet and Hip-Hop artist from Inglewood, California. She is the founder of the Inglewood Poetry Project and the author of the chapbook 22: Poems and Malku and was selected as the June Jordan Scholar in Poetry during the Pan African Literary Forum. You can find her at: www.jmalaikajames.com, www.inglewoodpoetry.tumblr.com or on Twitter: @eaglenebula

Tina G. Stumpf

Morgana Phoenix

Tina G. Stumpf is a Mother/Poet/Performer/Teaching Artist born and raised in the Lower East Side. She currently resides in the birthplace of Hip Hop. She has been writing, performing and creating for over a decade. She finds peace and purpose in teaching the youth throughout New York. She also loves spending time with her music loving son, Solomon Jazz. You can find her on Facebook: Tina G. Stumpf, Instagram: dopest_vessel, or on her website http://papersoul.wix.com/papersoul

Morgana Phoenix, daughter of a writer and opera singer, has used poetry as a form of therapy and reflection for years. Currently on a mission to blaze a trail in the field of therapeutic massage, she’ll always be a woman trying to make sense of the world around her - one poem at a time. Website: www.a-river-of-words.blogspot.com

Lisa Smith Beneath the shadow of the top-heavy evergreens, steeples, and prison was where she spent her childhood. Born and raised in Texas, three years ago she left behind her god and everything else she knew, for Boston. She is a painter who’s getting back in touch with the writer inside of her. Sabina Ibarrola Sabina is a performance artist, a troublemaker, and a budding herbalist. This bruja finds

the meat and magia of her work in the natural world and urban ecosystems of Brooklyn, New York. Inspired by a brilliant galaxy of queer femme artists and instigators, she explores themes of love and heartbreak, mixed-race ancestry, chosen fam, apocalypse and faith. Sabina’s collaborations include Heels on Wheels Glitter Roadshow, EmergeLAB@BAX, and The Femme Show. She is faking it til she makes it.

Bilen Berhanu Bilen doesn’t know how to write bios. Instead, she offers up these words. She is a daughter, sister, auntie, friend, doula, seeker and comrade. She loves and laughs a lot. she likes food, farming, community and cuddling with her baby cats. She writes in English but her heart still speaks Amharic. You can find her at www.bilenberhanu.com Anita Brown Anita Brown is a content mother of two teenagers and wife of 21 years, both of which she is grateful for every day. She began writing poetry in the fall of 2012 after a minibreakdown (through) cracked open her heart and allowed this newly found gift to shine through. Many months later, she is realizing the truth in the saying that “breakdown equals spiritual awakening” as she is pleasantly shocked at how much more peace she has in her spirit and how that is reflected in her life. She especially enjoys teaching yoga and meditation to under-served communities and listening to others as they express the same joy at the transformation occurring from such simple but regular practice.

Raidah Shah Idil

Christine Coonrod

Raidah Shah Idil is a published author, poet and budding spoken word artist. She lives in KL, Malaysia with her husband in a green, leafy suburb. You can find her turning compost, hunting for herbs and collecting stories. Website: www.raidahshahidil.com

Christine has written for various online publications including: Urban Mainstream magazine, Rukus magazine, Chicks with Guns magazine and more. She is currently pursuing a degree in Liberal Arts. She is also working on her first chapbook. She is an editor for Typoetic literary magazine.

Melinda Gonzalez Melinda Gonzalez is the author of 2 cookbooks, 2 poetry books, a mom, poet, aspiring bikini fitness model, certified Step/Kickboxing Instructor, and healthy living consultant. She has been featured in Latina Magazine and Yes! Magazine. She is currently accepting participants for Mommy Fit by Organic Melinda, a 5 Week Online Fitness Course designed with mommies in mind. She has dedicated her life to food security for all people, food justice, food rights, health, fitness, and wellness. For more information, visit www.organicmelinda.com.

Dior Vargas Dior Vargas is a Latina feminist mental health activist & a member of the Third Wave Legacy Council. Dior organized the 1st Feminist General Assembly in NYC with Women Occupying Wall Street. She has a B.A. in the Study of Women & Gender from Smith College and an M.S. in Publishing from Pace University. You can find her on DiorVargas.com

Qumyka Howell

Laneice Garner

Qumyka Rasheeda Howell is an award winning philanthropist, poet, and healing practitioner. She is an advocate, educator in the anti-sexual and domestic violence movement. She is the Founder and Director of the I.S.I.S. Foundation and innovator of the multi award winning Art eNergy Karma Healing (ANKH) programs. See more of her work at www.TheISISFoundation. com and catch up with her art and healing work through Instagram at www.instagram.com/ qumykahowell

Laneice Garner is a spoken word poet. She has a love for taking the indescribable and creating that image through prose. She is a junior in college pursuing a BA in English. She has dedicated a lot of her life to learning as much as she can in the world of poetry, as well as sharing those lessons with whomever she comes in contact with and progressing her growth as an overall writer.

Melanie Laura Raquelle Mayoral Raq Mayoral is currently pursuing her MFA in Poetry at Antioch University in Los Angeles. When she is not in artist mode, she enjoys teaching, trying new food, music, reading, and being involved in her spiritual community. She is located in Southern California by way of Chicago.

Melanie is a freelance writer and poet in Brooklyn, NY. She enjoys writing prose about socialization and social constructs and the way they inform trauma, sexuality, and intimacy. She also enjoys writing poetry about want and wanting. Her writing can be found here: MelanieLauraSpeaks.com.

Shalay Kimberly Christina Rodriguez

Christina D. Rodriguez is a writer/artist, trying to live this thing called, “The Writer’s Life”. As an aspiring arts journalist, she blogs about her writing life on her site, The Write Queen (www.thewritequeen.com). She is also the editor for the literary journal Typoetic. us (www.typoetic.us) and founder of Establishing Artists for Tomorrow Media Group (www.eatmedia.org).

Shalay Kimberly (Murray) is an ever-evolving work of art (and life) in progress. She was born In Albuquerque, New Mexico and raised in Cleveland, OH so for much of her life she considered herself a Midwestern girl with Southwestern sensibilities. She is apart of an amazing family of people she holds dear that are both of blood and of heart. This collective of beautiful souls is what drives her, uplifts her, and motivates her. Find her at http://www.facebook.com/shalay.kimberly1

Esther Mngodo Known by her stage name Es Taa, Esther Karin Mngodo is a Tanzanian poet based in Dar Es Salaam. She enjoys writing stories about women, children, education, religion and literature. Using her own life experience, Es Taaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s passion is to unearth matters that people would rather not talk about openly, to bring healing. She also seeks to use art as a tool of social change by addressing issues of human rights and social justice in a way that people can relate to. She can be found at http://es-taa.tumblr.com.

Aisyah Shah Idil Aisyah Shah Idil was born in Singapore and is currently living in Sydney, Australia. A current student of Communications at the University of Technology, she is a published author and poet, with works featured in The Sydney Morning Herald Young Writer 2012 and Digging Deep, Facing Self April 2014 anthologies.

Ahmani DoDoo Ahmani has entirely too many dreams and spends her days conjuring ways to make them all come to life. She has always enjoyed expressing herself through a collection of big and small, black words on white paper. Her literary work has been published in Foundling Review, Mangrove Online Journal, and other literary journals. She is currently an editor for an awesome literary journal, Typoetic. She can be found in a book, somewhere quiet, or at honeycache.tumblr.com.

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