 Conor Bracken is the author of Henry Kissinger, Mon Amour (Bull City Press, 2017), selected by Diane Seuss as winner of the Frost Place Chapbook Competition, and translator of Mohammed Khaïr-Eddine's Scorpionic Sun (CSU Poetry Center, 2019). His poems and translations appear (or will soon) in places like 32 Poems, BOMB, The New Yorker, Ploughshares, Waxwing, and elsewhere. An assistant poetry editor at Four Way Review, he teaches English at the University of Findlay. THE WORST THING YOU CAN DO TO A MAN
is pity him. The drowsy daffodil of his exhausted cock, the padlocks of his hands wrung open and equably useless-- how pathetic is all you have to mutter to crack him. How sad it must have been to have the god of his parents be a flame that incinerated each desire it tried to anneal and how sad for him his parents never noticed the ash heap rising in his chest and how they didn’t care enough to muzzle their god long enough to ask him why he kept the ash alone inside him and sometimes cleared in it the vague angelic shape of the first man who forced himself on him. What sorrow to never have the chance to say it was to see if the wind is still too weak to blow the ash away which it always is and isn’t that pitiful? Poor man, his little boyhood so much stronger than he is. Wrestling him into thinking he is the sole half-troubled maverick to swagger from the ship wreck of his past, extracting as he strides from the ad-hoc leather scabbard of his body the splinters he will drive under the ocean’s rough unvarnished nails.
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 Ben Purkert is the author of For the Love of Endings, named one of Adroit's best poetry books of 2018. His poems appear or are forthcoming in The New Yorker, Poetry, Ploughshares, Kenyon Review, The Believer, and elsewhere. He teaches creative writing at Rutgers and is the editor of Back Draft, a Guernica interview series focused on poetry and revision. He's currently working on a novel because he likes to sufferrrrrrr. THE ONLY EARTHLING they picked on me because I was different the only one with a blue dot on my forehead they rolled a boulder over my face they kicked my shins just to watch me bloom Tell us about Earth they cried but I knew not to answer I only turned a bluer shade the other kids were like a snake that swallows a mouse and for a minute the mouse is neither mouse nor snake simply the shape of one life passing through another I remember life back home it wasn’t so terrible our house had a screen door to keep the bugs out THE ONLY FRIEND
a giant mosquito had me over for dinner it was a nice time I was a nice dinner he could’ve finished me then and there but saved some for later he said he still wanted to be friends though I found it hard to believe he could fly with such difficult wings he tried to prove it but was too drunk and got only inches off the ground so I let him jump on my back and he yelled See I’m flying then I swore I heard him start to cry but what does crying sound like before the tears hit the ground before they fall suddenly to their knees Originally appearing in Flypaper Poetry Issue V.  Rachel “Raych” Jackson is a writer, educator and performer. While teaching third and fourth grade in Chicago Public Schools, Jackson competed on numerous national poetry teams and individual competitions. Her poems have gained over 2 million views on YouTube. She is the 2017 NUPIC Champion and a 2017 Pink Door fellow. Jackson recently voiced 'DJ Raych' in the Jackbox game, Mad Verse City. Her latest play, “Emotions & Bots”, premiered at the Woerdz Festival in Lucerne, Switzerland. Jackson wrote a room dedicated to her city for 29Rooms' first installment in Chicago, through Refinery 29. She co-created and co-hosts Big Kid Slam, a monthly poetry show in Chicago. Jackson’s work has been published by many— including Poetry Magazine, The Rumpus, The Shallow Ends, and Washington Square Review. Her debut collection EVEN THE SAINTS AUDITION was recently published through Button Poetry. She currently lives in Chicago. Pantoum for Derrion Albert from the Plank
In September 2009 Derrion Albert’s murder was caught on tape. The video spread through the world quicker than the Southside of Chicago could be gentrified through the Olympic bid. Killers are shown kicking Derrion in the face and smashing his head with a wooden plank. His hands were soft on my hips. We were brown together. How often does that happen? Wooden individuals shaped and dyed to look the same as them. Brown like the next. We all look the same to them. Brown like the next. Sturdy. Wooden individuals shaped and dyed to look the same as them. Brown like the next. There are many uses for a snatched tree. Easy to be broken and passed around. Each ring tells achievements of sorts. Sturdy. He needed a capable dancer. There are many uses for a snatched tree. Easy to be broken and passed around. Each ring tells achievements of sorts. A partner whose spine can bend with the grace of politicians tongues built on corroding law enforcement. He needed a capable dancer. I'm someone that will sacrifice my body spreading through skulls. A partner whose spine bend with the grace of politicians tongues built on corroding law enforcement. We danced to the music made that day. A slow melody assembled from the dull connection with heads and shrieks carrying his name. I'm someone that will sacrifice my body spreading through skulls. Admire me. Focus on me. I beat them all. We danced to the music made that day. A slow melody assembled from the dull connection with heads and shrieks carrying his name. We all look the same to them. Brown like the next. Admire me. Focus on me. I beat them all. His hands were soft on my hips. We were brown together. How often does that happen?  Elliot Ping (she/her or they/them) is a writer, neuroscience student, and lifelong Midwesterner currently residing in Columbus, Ohio. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Dovecote Magazine, Cultural Weekly, Kissing Dynamite, and The Knight's Library. You can find her on Twitter @elliotcping. in the eighth grade
i got whiplash, falling on the asphalt play- ground where basket -ball hoops started the year with nets and ended without *** we started the year with you. i remember: your brother left class. i stuck gum under my desk when the door clicked, thought back to picture day, thought forward to yearbooks, wondered if they would leave room for you, wondered how quickly we’d forget shared air. *** you sit against the wall in P.E., throw the basketball back when it rolls to your feet, roll your eyes when asked to play. i roll memories between my fingers, marbles i shoot to hear them click together, fast blood pumping in the silence after a miss. i roll your name around my mouth, jawbreaker, see if it tastes any different. what they don’t tell you about grief is that it keeps you captive until you roll over for it. *** they sent a letter home about grief. your face was orange with foundation in the casket and we-- we were so angry. how could they? Originally appearing in Flypaper Poetry Issue VII.  Emma Bolden is the author of House Is An Enigma (SEMo Press, 2018), medi(t)ations (Noctuary Press, 2016) and Maleficae (GenPop Books, 2013). The recipient of a 2017 NEA Fellowship, she serves as Associate Editor-in-Chief for Tupelo Quarterly. Emma Bolden’s poetry and prose has appeared (or will soon appear) in such journals as the Black Warrior Review, Puerto del Sol, Shenandoah, New Madrid, the Mississippi Review, TriQuarterly, Story Quarterly, The Pinch, Waccamaw, The Rumpus, Prairie Schooner, Conduit, the Indiana Review, the Greensboro Review, Redivider, Verse, Feminist Studies, The Journal, Guernica, and Copper Nickel. Bolden has been featured on Poetry Daily and in Verse Daily’s Web Weekly series, and her work was chosen for inclusion in Best Small Fictions 2015, Best American Poetry 2015, and The Norton Introduction to Literature (13th Edition). What Women's Work Is
A fist in the blender. A hook of hunger handing out free dinners to a swarm of fins. A hunger without a hook, without a fish. The bones of a fish whose flesh finned off in the mouth of a black cat. A black cat’s back. My own back turned or against the wall: no other options. My eighty cents to his dollar. My human to his resources. My heart blessed but God knows why she didn’t know she shouldn’t have spoken out of her place. My first place is his last place, lit yellow as a sign. Dead end. My yellow belly cowarded, quiet. My good girl. My silence wild in the mouth I’m paid to keep shut. Originally appearing in Flypaper Poetry Issue V.  Kwame Opoku-Duku is a Ghanaian-American poet and fiction writer. He is the author of The Unbnd Verses (Glass Poetry Press, 2018), and his work is featured in The Virginia Quarterly Review, The Kenyon Review, BOMB, The Shallow Ends, The Literary Review, Bettering American Poetry, and other publications. Kwame lives in New York City, where he is a teaching artist, and along with Karisma Price, a founding member of the Unbnd Collective. Kwame is an associate poetry editor for BOAAT Journal, and supported by his residency with the Human Impacts Institute, he curates the reading series Dear Ocean. ii. dance moves
the old heads say the world is burning, watching youngins milly rock in the streets, bodies engulfed by the glow of their blackness, no fucks given, ain’t got time in these streets. and it’s true, really. the world is burning. at its core we’d evaporate like an orgasm in the night sky, have our souls flown to heaven by God’s benevolent birds. i used to be a youngin. i used to wild wilder than the wildest. i’ve watched young men of color spontaneously combust. these days, i evangelize like a dime store preacher, scrutinize the suits of other preachers, envy the humility of those more favored. i am so scared i want to die with my eyes open. i never turn my back on anybody, never trust without power. the devil preys in liminal spaces, uses pebbles instead of boulders, talking plenty slick, like he’s the only one who could really know God, who could really love Him. and you’ll say it’s more complicated. it’s always more complicated. i say, lord, take everything but my dance moves. i submit myself to your will. your grace a pashmina in the crisp new york air. i’ll lay myself prostrate and pray for more heat. Originally appearing in Flypaper Poetry Issue V.  Chelsea Dingman’s first book, Thaw, was chosen by Allison Joseph to win the National Poetry Series (University of Georgia Press, 2017). Her second poetry collection, Through a Small Ghost, won The Georgia Poetry Prize and is forthcoming from the University of Georgia Press (February 2020). She is also the author of the chapbook What Bodies Have I Moved (Madhouse Press, 2018). Her work is forthcoming in The Kenyon Review, The Iowa Review, and Triquarterly, among others. Visit her website: chelseadingman.com Lockdown Drill
Keep thinking of the dead babies the dead babies the dead so like the babies at the ends of our fingers the babies that will grow to leave too fast if they live long enough the babies that mothers once held inside like secrets they promised to keep safe—keep thinking that no one is safe if not the babies if not the near-visible bones we grow to outlast us keep thinking nothing lasts while the sun sinks below the late winter horizon the hours of daylight getting longer but only by seconds the bones grown away from us like the babies so close to being the only evidence of angels the babies that moved through the world just yesterday & now move in the dark beyond the windows beyond the glass lake of memory keep thinking there are reasons for everything but do not find a single reason for a bullet to enter a baby like a wind that opens a door it can’t close keep thinking we’d do anything to deadbolt the doors to shut out the wind to put breaths back in their bodies to give them a new history a new exit strategy a world where hate is not a bullet where dead babies aren’t snowflakes fallen to rest under our feet where the babies that live at our fingertips are what we hold instead of what we could be holding when to hold them is never enough is never enough is never enough "POEM FOR MY FRIEND MATT WHO AT THIS MOMENT IS RUNNING 300 MILES ACROSS TENNESSEE" by Devin Kelly8/21/2019  Originally appearing in Flypaper Poetry Issue I Devin Kelly earned his MFA from Sarah Lawrence College and is the author of two collaborative chapbooks as well as two collections of poetry, Blood on Blood (Unknown Press), and In This Quiet Church of Night, I Say Amen (Civil Coping Mechanisms). His work has been published or is forthcoming in The Guardian, LitHub, Catapult, and more. He is a founding English teacher at Comp Sci High School in the Bronx, and has previously taught at Bronx Community College and The City College of New York. He is the founder and co-host of the Dead Rabbits Reading Series and currently lives in Harlem. He also enjoys extremely sharp cheddar cheese melted atop a medium rare burger. POEM FOR MY FRIEND MATT WHO AT THIS MOMENT
IS RUNNING 300 MILES ACROSS TENNESSEE The names of towns sound kind enough: Sugar Tree, Pleasantville, Pine View. Once, while running, you turned to me & said don’t worry so much about dying – your brother had been diagnosed with cancer & I didn’t know. You said let’s roll & the road became frictionless, the air beneath a wing, a pillow firmed before dreaming. What is running good for? All our lives, old fathers say stay, work, don’t budge, bear your own burden. But you know two people can carry one another into infinity. How I hope this is what infinity is: the carrying multiplied until it has no number or time, only a motion so constant it is imperceptible. That day, the miles were a blur of miles. You broke away & I chased you with a grin, the rain caught in my beard, what was once a marathon no longer, only the unfound word for both love & rain. How I felt like a bear. How I want to say there is a cure for everything, but how I can’t. People tire & people die. Tonight, while I sleep, you will be shuffling slowly along Highway Sixty-Four in the dark, carrying what small load you have left upon your back. For all my life I have yet to understand what to make of all my life. I grow scared & anxious with what I stand to lose & haven’t yet held in my arms. My first reaction to pain is instinctive. I crawl within myself, make of my body a den. I stop, all shiver & hide, forgetting that there is nothing to lose after that last, ultimate loss. I dream my own brother’s death & wake two inches above the bed in that last moment of falling. So we rise. So we go on. So each stride of yours is twice as long as mine but how we have learned to cover this distance at the same time. I’ll stay up late tonight, track your progress as I would a plane arcing over the pollution above Manhattan. Wasn’t that fun, you said. We had just finished, the salt of our bodies a desert of white sand upon our skin. I have run far enough that I can say anything. It was, I said. It was, it was, it was.  Originally appearing in Flypaper Poetry Issue IX (the bio below is from poets.org): D. A. Powell was born in Albany, Georgia, on May 16, 1963. He attended Sonoma State University, where he received his bachelor's degree in 1991, and his master's in 1993. He received his MFA degree from the Iowa Writer’s Workshop in 1996. Powell is the author of the trilogy of books Tea (Wesleyan University Press, 1998), Lunch (Wesleyan University Press, 2000), and Cocktails (Graywolf Press, 2004)—which was nominated for the National Book Critics Circle Award. His poetry collection Chronic (Graywolf Press, 2009) received the Kingsley Tufts Award and was nominated for a National Book Critics Circle Award. His most recent books are Repast: Tea, Lunch, Cocktails (Graywolf Press, 2014) and Useless Landscape, or a Guide for Boys: Poems (Graywolf Press, 2012). SNEAK
when away he would call every day and when he didn't he was knocking on someone else's back gate oh, but he was hung like a trojan horse with no trojan |