 CAConrad has been working with the ancient technologies of poetry and ritual since 1975. They are the author of Amanda Paradise, forthcoming from Wave Books in 2021. Their book While Standing in Line for Death won a Lambda Literary Award. They also received a Creative Capital grant, a Pew Fellowship, and a Believer Magazine Book Award. They teach at Columbia University in New York City and Sandberg Art Institute in Amsterdam. Please view their books, essays, recordings, and upcoming events at bit.ly/88CAConrad 2 Shard our little places within are not dungeons remember remember astronomers point satellites into space the military points them down at us the inverse relationship between love we offer and what we give this on and off button is another opportunity to believe there are only two choices this too must end 4 Shard we wanted this thing crossing between us worming under foot a flavor revealing itself to those who open the mouth fully a taste tasting us back wide eyed before we learn to catch words midair snorting lines of coke off the biggest cock detecting additional minutes hidden in the cave we forge of one another 7 Shard
he said breathe like you read your poems what the hell does that mean then suddenly I'm breathing it look at our hands baked into being by a fleeting magic bark with dogs to let the neighborhood know you can go to the address knock all you want no one is there now where the exit signs are burned out the preexisting condition is not cancer but the glass of polluted drinking water
0 Comments
 A Bronx, New York native, Roya Marsh is a nationally recognized poet, performer, educator and activist. She is the Poet in Residence at Urban Word NYC and works feverishly toward LGBTQIA justice and dismantling white supremacy. Roya’s work has been featured in Poetry Magazine, Flypaper Magazine, Frontier Poetry, the Village Voice, Nylon Magazine, Huffington Post, The Root, Button Poetry, Def Jam’s All Def Digital, Lexus Verses and Flow, NBC, BET and The BreakBeat Poets Vol 2: Black Girl Magic (Haymarket 2018). In Spring 2020, MCD x FSG Originals published Roya Marsh's dayliGht, a debut collection of experimental poetry exploring themese of sexuality, Blackness, and the prematurity of Black femme death--all through an intersectional feminist lens with a focus on the resilience of the Black woman. for (insert name)
never knowing how to label a dream until you want to tell your children apart you'll forget how to tell your children apart not wanting your baby to die on a cross like (insert name) or in a cross walk like (insert name) not wanting him to be like (insert name) lying in middle of the street not another (insert name) crying he can't breathe or (insert name) shot at the doorstep 'cause black fist against door equates fist against body 'cause guns ring out more than doorbells or (insert name)'s brains splattered in that alley 'cause a cell phone could be a lot of things in the dark but an unregistered 9mm semiautomatic fired over the shoulder can only be one thing an eraser a broken taillight in broad daylight a reaper eye contact, a counterfeit bill a death wish you ain't gon let your son go out like how they let (insert name) run just far enough to think himself safe before they shot you won't let the last time you see him whole be like when they threw (insert name) in the back of that van hands cuffed behind his back like (insert name) but he still managed to shoot himself like (insert name) his spine in pieces like (insert name) you want him home like putting curfew on (insert name)'s soul - too black to be out at night you ain't gonna be asking the news why they say (insert name) when they really mean (insert name) got Obama and Kamala callin' us (insert name) like they don't sit around callin' him (insert name) 'cause isn't that the right word? ‘cause you know ALL lives matter except (insert name) how lucky am i, to have (insert name) in my bloodline holy the way (insert name) keeps pushing my pen from heaven i flap my gums show the world the fist in my throat in honor of (insert name) but my mother begs me home from the protest says she can't go through what she went through with (insert name) says this hype over (insert name) will die just like (insert name) and i tell her i'd rather die for (insert name) a million times than die like (insert name) once  Stephanie Kaylor is a PhD student in Feminist Studies at the University of California, Santa Barbara. They are Reviews Editor of Glass: A Journal of Poetry. Her recent work can be found in publications including Hobart, Protean, and Softblow. LONG DISTANCE
I photograph the ocean to show you there was a moment in which I remembered our smallness, in which I placed the shell to my ear and heard not the roar of past lives but the miles between us. I was never faithless enough to believe there is no smell of salt. Once it meant closeness, the peeling of earth-worn limbs folded into themselves, an indiscernible core. I cut apples into spears when you feared a bite would break your teeth. how effortlessly we crumble. I photograph the ocean to show you I remember life before the weight of bone, before the need for knives.  Originally from San Francisco, Tongo Eisen-Martin is a poet, movement worker, and educator. His latest curriculum on extrajudicial killing of Black people, We Charge Genocide Again, has been used as an educational and organizing tool throughout the country. His book titled, "Someone's Dead Already" was nominated for a California Book Award. His latest book "Heaven Is All Goodbyes" was published by the City Lights Pocket Poets series, was shortlisted for the Griffin Poetry Prize and won a California Book Award and an American Book Award. A Sketch about Genocide
A San Francisco police chief says, “Yes, you poets make points. But they are all silly,” Police chief sowing a mouth onto a mouth Police chief looking straight through the poet Flesh market both sides of the levy Change of plans both sides of the nonviolence On no earth Just an earth character His subordinate says, “Awkward basketball moves look good on you, sir... Yes, we are everywhere, sir... yes, unfortunately for now, white people only have Black History ... we will slide the wallpaper right into their cereal bowls, sir ... Surveil the shuffle.” I am a beggar and all of this day is too easy I want to see all of the phases of a wall Every age it goes through Its humanity Its environmental racism We call this the ordeal blues Now crawl to the piano seat and make a blanket for your cell Paint scenes of a child dancing up to the court appearance And leaving a man, but not for home Atlantic ocean charts mixed in with parole papers Mainstream funding (the ruling class’s only pacifism) Ruling class printing judges (fiat kangaroos) Making judges hand over fist Rapture cop packs and opposition whites all above a thorny stem Caste plans picked out like vans for the murder show anglo-saints addicting you to a power structure you want me to raise a little slave, don’t you? bash his little brain in and send him to your civil rights No pain Just a white pain Delicate bullets in a box next to a stack of monolith scriptures (makes these bullets look relevant, don’t it?) I remember you Everywhere you lay your hat is the capital of the south The posture you introduced to that fence The fence you introduced to political theory If you shred my dreams, son I will tack you to gun smoke The suburbs are finally offended this will be a meditation too  Despy Boutris's writing has been published in Copper Nickel, American Poetry Review, The Gettysburg Review, Colorado Review, Prairie Schooner, and elsewhere. Currently, she serves as Poetry Editor for Gulf Coast, Guest Editor for Palette Poetry and Frontier, and Editor-in-Chief of The West Review. BLOODTEETH
I went blackberry-picking, looked down at my index finger, & watched a wound bloom with blood. To compare this plasma to a flowering thing: amaryllis, orchid, chrysanthemum. To memorize creases, freckles, the sight of the thorn finding its way into flesh. All day, the breeze burns my ears, eyes blurring at the sight of sunlight filtering through oak branches, that golden color unbearable, the haze hard to believe as fable. My mother organizes her top-drawer & finds a box of my teeth. My mother tells me love never lasts, a river dissolving into a ravine with parched rocks. Nothing left to drink. I call my father to say I dreamt I swam the span of the Pacific, fled from everything I know. He reminds me my name is mythic—body built for saltwater, memory spanning centuries, trident still stuck in my spine. & what do we really have to count on but the sea, water, the light of the sun turning on the city? Hands made stiff from the cold, distant smoke rising, the scent of anise in the air.  Khalisa Rae is a poet and journalist in Durham, NC, and author of Real Girls Have Real Problems chapbook. Her poetry can be seen in Crab Fat, Damaged Goods, Hellebore, Terse, Sundog Lit, PANK Tishman Review, Occulum, the Obsidian, among others. She is the winner of the Bright Wings Poetry contest, the Furious Flower Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Prize, the White Stag Publishing Contest, among others. Currently, she serves as Managing Equity Editor at Carve Magazine and Writing Center Director at Shaw University. Her debut collections, Ghost in a Black Girls Throat are forthcoming from Red Hen Press in April 2021 and White Stag Publishing Summer '21 Belly-Full of Gospel
Each morning my grandma rises to find her Bible still breathing, belting her favorite aria. A lion, a well, a sacrifice. Crack-of-dawn, coffee-stained, scrolls making music at 6am. Each page turn a chord she knows better than hot water cornbread and collard greens. Wailing Blessed Assurance, What a Friend to crackling bacon– all a belly-full of gospel summoning spirit to be there in the midst. Her back buckle and hand wave awakening a holy ghost- Bash-sha- Shadrach, Meshach- tongue-speaking spells cast out the demons haunting this old house. “While I’m on this tedious journey”— a sovereign song soothing her aching, calligraphed hands. Walk with Me, she asks, inviting Him in the room. What a meditation, a ritual to welcome Holy into a place held together by broken bread. A sacred invitation to dine with her and the browning hash. Nothing but the Blood and sunrise slicing sound-- stirring a tent revival lasting ‘til nightfall across her wobbling kitchen table. Ode to Uncommon Things for Pablo If this world has taught me anything, it has taught me we are obsessed with naming, with calling a Ren a Ren, with deciding the weeping willow was heavy with grief, with echoing the words Nightjar and picturing nocturnal hawk. Maybe it's the god-like power of it all, the villain of conjuring titles, calling a thing broken and watching it fall, then calling it chosen–phoenix, and watching it rise. Who are we to be cataloged and filed? All of us just common things waiting to be named uncommon, waiting to go from bird to Nightingale, from pigeon to white-wing, crest-backed Long-tailed widow. The sonnet we hoped would be written for our raised backs and color stripes— unwritten. Instead, we watched while handkerchief and pitch pipe got 83. Mementos to things less miracle than we. Time spent crafting sestinas to penny loafer, and pocket watch. But we are not listed-- we, the uncommon, silvery tokens.  JinJin Xu is a filmmaker and writer from Shanghai. She has received honors from The Poetry Society of America, Southern Humanities Review, and the Thomas J. Watson Foundation. She is currently an MFA candidate and Lillian Vernon Fellow at NYU, and her chapbook There Is Still Singing in the Afterlife was selected by Aria Aber for the Own Voices Chapbook Prize and is forthcoming November 20. Days of Hourless Mothers
i. Herbal, thick, my mother’s insomnia wets my nose, You are leaving me again – My mother’s insomnia wets my nose, exhales her abandon again – into the muffled orifice, Exhales her abandon into night, guilt unclenches the muffled orifice, old tissue, balled-up grief Of night, guilt unclenches, herbal, thick, balled-up tissue, old grief. I am leaving. ii. Each hour an organ, a zodiac beast, twelve hours separate my mother and me, our days halved, up hanging down, shadows splitting this American sun. Hour of the tiger: my mother calls on the tip of night, her sun spitting my American shadow, sorry, sorry for disturbing your sleep. Midnight tips me into my mother’s lonesome noon, always, I apologize in my sleep. Only one is allowed pity, Pity my mother’s lone moon. Double the organ, double the beast, only one child is allowed to flip the zodiac onto its knees. iii. Hour of the lung and its cyclings of qi, vital, untranslatable beasts wailing songs of abandon into night, I wake to Your call, vital, untranslatable, my abandon strains your voice, Why are you awake? Organs need sleep to heal. I abandon you to the bright of day. Listen, your daughter is sleeping， her organs unclenching your night’s far shore. Soon, your tomorrow will ring her into yesterday’s outstretched lungs, and when she wakes, forgetting to call, let her -  Ashley M. Jones holds an MFA in Poetry from Florida International University, and she is the author of Magic City Gospel (Hub City Press 2017), dark / / thing (Pleiades Press 2019), and REPARATIONS NOW! (Hub City Press 2021). Her poetry has earned several awards, including the Rona Jaffe Foundation Writers Award, the Silver Medal in the Independent Publishers Book Awards, the Lena-Miles Wever Todd Prize for Poetry, a Literature Fellowship from the Alabama State Council on the Arts, the Lucille Clifton Poetry Prize, and the Lucille Clifton Legacy Award. She was a finalist for the Ruth Lily Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Fellowship in 2020. Her poems and essays appear in or are forthcoming at CNN, The Oxford American, Origins Journal, The Quarry by Split This Rock, Obsidian, and many others. She teaches at the Alabama School of Fine Arts, she co-directs PEN Birmingham, and she is the founding director of the Magic City Poetry Festival. FLOUR, MILK & SALT
after Celestia Morgan flour a universe is born between her brown hands—flour, a cloud of Southern possibility when she makes it hover and sigh. how this could become our sustenance is magic, is Jesus making bread to outlast bread. what God but a mother’s hands? what a prayer in the biscuit dough clinging to itself, readied for the fire? milk thank you mama thank you mama thank you mama thank you mama thank you mama thank you mama thank you mama thank you mama thank you mama thank you mama thank you mama thank you mama thank you mama thank you mama thank you mama thank you mama you gave your life so that I might live-- salt they say it will kill us, silent as it is. salt as it is. how it makes our blood so deadly in our veins. how it, tableside, can be a weapon, even if it makes the meal sing. a death song for me and my people. precursor to diabetes, that great southern meal.  Sam Herschel Wein (he/they) is a Chicago-based poet who specializes in perpetual frolicking. Their second chapbook, GESUNDHEIT!, a collaboration with Chen Chen, was part of the 2019-2020 Glass Poetry Press Series. He co-founded and edits Underblong. Recent work can be found in Moon City Review, Sundog Lit, and Bat City Review, among others. Perchance, read more at samherschelwein.com. How to Cook Your Family
First Six mixing bowls. Fourteen blenders. Who needs this many kitchen aids? An avalanche of appliances from the taut, turquoise shelves. Every rubber spatula you’ve ever dreamed of in the pull-out cabinet next to the stove, packed so tight it’s stuck shut, inaccessible Then Mother makes Challah most weeks, though she often makes extras, for the weeks she wants just to pull one from the freezer. A special Hungarian mixing stick, an overnight dough, hidden recipes she changes just barely over time, they’re impossible to copy Next Clean out grandma’s house. She’s in a senior’s apartment complex now. Not a nursing home, my mother says aloud for herself. Though Grandma wouldn’t know. Her Alzheimer’s, ten years old. I’ve inherited many of the extra kitchen bowls, tools, essentials she kept buying. Don’t forget to mix Yeast for the bread to rise. Raisins on holidays. Gefilte fish from scratch, Brisket recipe from Great Aunt Esther. My grandmother was the best cook in town, in the Jewish community. My mother was the best cook in town, in the Jewish community. Where I grew up. Sprinkle, ever so gently sesame seeds. Sprinkle dirt on the grave. Sprinkles in your eyes, reading a speech goodbye. All good cooking comes in pinches, my mother once said. And she lives that way, too. Pinching out her sadness, the sprinkles hardly visible. Not even coarse. Leave out to cool I was like that. I was a balloon of smiles. They’d shoot out of me with so much force. Pinching back my hair, back my hurt. I’m learning to unfurl. I have a book of recipes, but I don’t need them. This tart, I baked anew. My own strawberries.  Marianne Chan grew up in Stuttgart, Germany, and Lansing, Michigan. She is the author of All Heathens from Sarabande Books (2020). Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in New England Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, The Cincinnati Review, West Branch, and elsewhere. She is currently pursuing a Ph.D. in Creative Writing at the University of Cincinnati. Ars Poetica Say what you mean already, the man snarls with a string of floss hanging from his teeth. You imagine that if you pull at the string, his whole mouth would click on, incandescent. You stand in a friend’s bathroom. The night drinks a glass of Diet Pepsi. You feel refreshed inside of it. And yet, the man is here yelling: Say it. Spit it out. The story. What’s the story? But sometimes there is nothing. No story, no character, not any reason to be at the party, other than the fact that you like games of Twister, aperol spritzes, the rolled-up prosciutto on a sugar maple board. Sometimes there’s only the smell of bleach, a clean bathroom that never looks clean, only the slush of memory tumbling into the gutter, dark and barely solid. Sometimes there is only the silhouette of an owl outside, the sheet music of its hoot, the German houses on the street that remind you of a version of Germany you once floated within, but now, can no longer imagine. You want to say the story, it’s here somewhere. But at the party, you’re under- water with no goggles, your reading glasses floating to the surface. What is there more to say? It’s all bubbles and tile down here, but no speech, and you’re ready to come up. VALLEY OF FIRE, NEVADA
for J., A., & C. October and the world alternates in vermillion, cantaloupe, gray and tan. Limestone swirls: cream stirred into orange coffee. We find ourselves in the petroglyphs. A thousand years ago, people carved their own image—four figures holding hands—into rock covered in a patina of iron and manganese. But we are not the descendants of these original people. These minerals did not leach from our bodies and evaporate over hundreds of years. We are sullen transplants in search of red Aztec sandstone, knobby desert knees, blue agave. What does sedimentary mean, really? I think of the four of us—an accumulation, broken segments cemented to broken segments. Before you, I was a single person carrying a bike up the stairs, listening to the radio in a tiled kitchen, but now, we are glued here in this lumpy land, this amphitheater. We lay our heads on each other’s rock shoulders. This was all sea at one point. All strung together by water. |
