Christine Stoddard’s poetry collection, Water for the Cactus Woman (Spuytenduyvil, 2018) is a meditation on family, the body, and navigating a bi-cultural map of memories. The most looming figure in the poems is the speaker’s dead grandmother, who appears in the most mundane of places, bringing dread to the speaker. In “The Cactus Centerpiece”, the ghost provokes jealousy and a cactus shapeshifts from protective shield to a portal for the dead, “We never named the cactus/ or the petite panther, / even though we named/everything, good or bad.”Read More
Kailey Tedesco's books She Used to be on a Milk Carton (April Gloaming Publications) and These Ghosts of Mine, Siamese (Dancing Girl Press) are both forthcoming. She is the editor-in-chief of a Rag Queen Periodical and a performing member of the NYC Poetry Brothel. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. You can find her poetry featured or forthcoming in Prelude, Prick of the Spindle, Bellevue Literary Review, Vanilla Sex Magazine, and more. For more information, please visit kaileytedesco.com.Read More
marginalized writers are not monolithic and our own relationship to writing will continue evolving…Read More
When you burst through the body’s confines
in the grip of joy,
think of the black hole's
BY KARISMA PRICE
SELECTIONS BY OMOTARA JAMES
Even if you’ve never endured the burn of a chemical relaxer, even if you’ve never sat still beneath the crackle of a sizzling hot comb, who among us hasn’t processed the body through a problematic paradigm? Hasn’t prayed for at least one part of the whole to be perfect? An inquisitive voice emanates from Price’s poems with all the authority granted by compassion. How the he tenderness of the phrase “to hold the seeds of you in my fingers” cohabitates within the same poem that mouths “the feathered kiss of suffering,” demonstrates Price’s lyric grace and propensity to translate every divine inch of the mortal coil.
God of burning scalp,
prevent the dollop of chemical from destroying my cousin’s hairline. She sits contently in the kitchen chair, unaware of the approaching fire. I watch how the loose strand swings, lands on her acne cheek and wonder how long it took her to master stillness. How many times did my aunt have to promise her an incentive for straight hair and itchy scabs? I frown when the smell of sulfur floods the room. When the hot comb couldn’t tame the wild, my aunt suggested a more permanent solution. This is a rite of passage. Maybe now it won’t look so nappy. When the thick, white cream loiters for too long on my cousin’s scalp, she bolts from the chair and plunges head first into the kitchen sink. This must be what a proper baptism looks like.
Demeter, Reimagined as a Black Woman, Speaks to Persephone
Please do not come back to me
suspended in the sky’s quiet
diorama, or in umber pieces
that require me to hold the seeds
of you in my fingers
like an examiner holds
a tooth to an x-ray. Baby, I have broken
the trees for you. I will curse every
person that yells, “A man was lynched
here yesterday,” but refuses to acknowledge
his wife. Did they ever cut her down or
does she still swing above us like a broken
promise? What of the mothers afraid of being
mothers of daughters and fear the feathered
kiss of suffering? I asked God
for mercy. There was no answer.
I’ve decided you don’t have to answer
me either. Because I love you, surrender
to the only darkness heavier than sleep.
Do not come back from it.
Omotara James is a poet and essayist. Her poetry chapbook, Daughter Tongue, was selected by African Poetry Book Fund, in collaboration with Akashic Books, for the 2018 New Generation African Poets Box Set. Her debut full length collection, Mama Wata, is forthcoming in the Fall of 2018 from Siren Songs, of CCM press. She has been award fellowships from Cave Canem and Lambda Literary. Currently, she is an MFA candidate in poetry at NYU. For further information, please visit her website: www.omotarajames.com
Karisma Price was born and raised in New Orleans, LA and holds a BA in creative writing from Columbia University. She is an MFA candidate in poetry at New York University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Four Way Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Vinyl, and Leveler. Karisma lives in New York City, and along with Kwame Opoku-Duku III, she is a founding member of the Unbnd Collective. Find her on twitter at @itsKayPrice and here.
While voicing anguish, Diaz’ narrators are never pitiable, nor does he allow the suffering self to wallow.Read More
I will touch you
with my subconscious,
"The erasures are transformational, I think, in that they mutate the original messages of the statements into my own vision of the truth behind them. It’s sort of like wetting a sheet of paper covered in invisible ink and seeing the message hidden there."Read More
are you aware that
went the sun
and what few stars
A southern snowflake in blizzard descends.
The winter you’re born beach town’s snowed in.
An alabaster tourist never blends.
You’re not like your parents. You don’t pretend.
We do not colonize
We pillage and remove.
Sea anemones grow every year. She remembers. She’s not the hunter
but knows provocation. I sing to the bees and make honeycakes.
The fourth poet in this series is Karin Boye, a Swedish poet born in Gothenburg in 1900. Her first collection of poems, entitled Clouds came out on 1922. In 1931 founded the poetry magazine Spektrum with Erik Mesterton and Josef Riwkin, translating many of T.S. Eliot’s poems.Read More
Ages ago, this town was all wood.
You had to get to know each tree as a
madrina. You knew this birch that creaks
with wind guides you west; this willow with
bark soft as hair would sing songs from
before the arrival of sky. And everyone
could hear the spirits.
The doctor wasn't supposed to
but she prescribed herself
to try new things.
"Something new once a week,