Category: Issue #22

what I do,  say,  imagine,  
we are black, capital B, lowercase b, 
another name for a nigga 
                               which means: not to be
that when a person doesn’t see a body–
flesh stirs; spirit is exchanged on the market 
in a Shakespearean fourth act staring hell’s devils 
over them salty Atlantic waters waves green like dollar 
Bills with dead men’s posing on the front crashing against 
the shore as a ching-a-ling ring for every star
that hasn’t fallen, proof the world is a plantation 
there will always be a first black from king’s dream to lead us out the hull though we already landed. because if i were not here my country would make me from scratch: bones thin, 
mud skin, hair so tight it don’t blow in the wind
a delectable delight for all to hate, the sweet taste of modernity.  

first, comes the first black, who used to be a slave?
in fact, isn’t that the second black, secondly negro, 
then the third version: 
pro-black, joy black, magic black, afro-black
                               which means: take what is given
i do laugh more when i’m wrong than right, love my friends when 
death skips me over, i have a heart that beats throughout the day into the night. the mundane yields little to the debt 
assigned to an object trying to say: 
                               What is enough?
when lack sits in the corner letting air out while being filled
when i talk it always ruins the picture within the frame 
no matter the color of the blue sky, the green of the itchy blades
of grass, the pink of your tongue matching the inside of me 
between the way we find to be fine is always fleeting from black to white, only gray in the moment never after.

what is left, i write as truth but understand it to be a lie; 
haven’t you heard, we free? they said we can be whatever we like. 

 

Christian M. Ivey (he/they), is a black nonbinary trans writer, editor, and art director from Pontiac, Michigan. their work interrogates the mundane to illuminate how blackness is overdetermined by social death via kinships. Christian had edited issue NO. 28 themed on Belonging of FIYAH Literary Magazine and the forthcoming HEXAGON SF MYRIAD Zine themed on Kinship. Christian is also, the Art Director for FIYAH Literary Magazine, Associate Editor at Tenebrous Press’ Skull & Laurel, and the Digital Communications Specialist at the Othering and Belonging Institute at UC Berkeley.

FULL-FRONTAL THREAD COUNT

            For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. 
            Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I 
            have been fully known.           1 Corinthians 13:12 ESV

All the words I’ve got unspecify. Misconstrue 
& misconstruct. Okay, she fucked me 

until unlanguage, until all sorts of things 
sounded good, but to write it is another story: 

you’ve already misunderstood. Well, what if I said 
perversion, genuine goddamn thrill of twist, 

standards bunched up in my fists like sheets.
Sundial sex: it’s all in the shadow. Earth-curl

& flattered flinch, unspectacled tableau,
return to dirt / depths / ambiguity. Re-

dim me. Know me in part — in thigh & tongue, 
in ass & tit & lens — there’s just one act

on offer, her dream whatever. Stone hot
bitch mirror. I’ve never read a poem 

that fucked like us (underwear on) (her balls 
against my cunt) (in some phantom rhythm 

spirit desperate pulse) (they used to call this 
dyking) (I think some mornings, an echo lurch

that never quite grasps) so if I said I subsist
some nights off the dip of her hip like I could lap

water carefully from its curve, would it matter less 
how many verbs I reject for our failure to convey 

the grace & grossness with which she again 
obscures me beyond any hope of disunion?

 

SEMIOLOGY: RESTLESSNESS

It’s probably a (sub)cultural trait, to be into people who’re hot for your nails. She calls the photo of me fully clothed and clawed a nude, and it’s like someone has spoken my name for the first time. My thoughts keep orbiting the interaction, less passive than predatorial, lithe and hungry in a way that’s at odds with the routine of my body. 

Let’s not skirt around it: I am much more used to being hunted. I limp back from the appointment at which another doctor casts himself carnivore to my crying wolf and, when I have no howl left, turn instead to the bite of a new coffin on each finger, the first half of a ritual against dying. 

The second, that there exists a body that will do as I ask. As much as I believe in and affirm meaningless sex, the truth is, it’s never not been important to me, and this is no different: the dagger of my nail against my clit and the way she begs for them both in her mouth, the sweat-sheened and trembling reminder of what it’s like to be listened to. My arm takes off on its own exorcism-resistant rhythm, embodied litany of I want, I want, I want—this meter that drew every eye in the waiting room, incessant no matter how my muscles ache, and one I no longer want to fight.

Call it dystonia or chorea or hysteria, call it cockblock, call it getting creative. Sex on my terms is so full of her stillness I forget to swallow, but not to breathe, and that’s the difference between this co-constructed power and that all too real one. I’ve got nothing but awe when she says she needs the imprint of my teeth in her throat—our mockery of nature, our mutual subversion of the cripple who simply takes what they are given. Give me a bear-trap body and a lover who knows exactly what they’re getting into. Give me a lover who longs to serve as a scratching post and a sound effect as I unsheath my index finger. Give me a couple hours and an internet connection and I’ll finally eat my fill.

 

Mac Wilder (ze/zem/zyrs or any pronouns) is a homebound high femme whose work explores queercrip sexuality, high-control Christianity, & their intersection. Zyr work is forthcoming in Sinister Wisdom, manywor(l)ds.place, and Corporeal. Zyr self-published chapbooks and zines can be found at justfor.fans/assonance.

Love, our bigness is a gift. We are massively magnificent as we are. 
Told to exercise our bodies as if demons & I am so tired of running 
to lose myself. There will be no more dying to diet. I do not desire chasers 
& am no longer chasing after silhouettes nor wild fowl nor paper-thin nor rainbows-end. 
Forever yes fats yes fems yes queer yes trans! We reclaim any shame from the names obese 
& overweight. Yes chunky & chubby! Yes portly & pudgy! Yes heavy & husky! Yes yes yes! 
Our corpulence is elegant. We bask in the auras of our largeness. Come & sit. Grab a handful 
of ass & yes there’s much more to handle. Titty in your mouth is a sweet word, never pejorative. 
I find in you so many good words: handsome, stunning, wonderful, cute, pretty, hot, gorgeous–
Love, you extend my vocabulary with your expansiveness. We’ve been force fed falsehoods 
about shrinking & smallness, yet we contain such abounding abundance. Attractiveness 
is your body, yes, as well as your caring kindness, careful consideration. There will be 
no more sighs upon our size, only our own honor upon our release & reveal, yes! Yes & 
fat phobias too. So much yes & no felt in the body, it is okay to be scared & sad & mad
at these systems that dismiss our pains & hold us under the knife. We are still here, still holding
each other– not cropped out, no, more crop tops & muffin tops, bikini bottoms & bottoms up, yes
in any season we please! Love, we have beautiful bodies. We are more than our bodies 
& our bodies are more to love. We sit naked in front of each other, belly to belly, 
thunder thighs & lightning strikes. We make our own sky of stretch mark constellations 
& starry eyes full of moon. Love, we are so much yes, why would we want to be any less?

 

Aerik Francis (they/them) is a Queer Black & Latinx poet & teaching artist born & based in Denver, CO. Aerik is the author of the poetry chapbook, BODYELECTRONIC (Trouble Department 2022). Their second chapbook MISEDUCATION was named as the winner for the 2022 New Delta Review Chapbook Contest and was published in May 2023. Aerik has released an experimental audiobook project for their chapbook BODYELECTRONIC under their artist name phaentom[poet] that is available on all streaming platforms. Find more of their work on their website phaentompoet.com and find them on social media @phaentompoet.

Before I was a baby, I was a beautiful idea.
The salvation of a Jersey girl whose limbs hung
grotesquely draped in berry-blue defiance whipped
in all white till her dress frayed and fell cherry-stained
on the long walk home. A Brooklyn boy’s respectable
manifest destiny as he sprouted upwards toward the
heavens from a roach-infested tinsel tower varnished
in my grandfather’s secrets. I was part and parcel,
the means of production. I could make a dream
so American it’d twinkle like onyx
buffed and chiseled into a vanity so reflective,
they could almost see themselves in me.
& then I was ugly.

One does not become ugly overnight, there is a context
for such monsterfication; it takes a learned imperfection.
Cracked teeth in a mouth that insists upon staying open
and so much self you spill out of yourself. You become
the answer to questions no one ever planned on asking like:
How are you yo daddy’s son when you’supposed to be
a daughter? Couldn’t you color yourself lighter in every hue?
Couldn’t you walk lighter than a feather,
instead of this hulking beast, a blight, refusing
to be the beautiful through-thread of this story? 
And who the fuck do you think you are
being this ugly and unabashed?

And then I was hands and snap and sparkle
puppeteering in the morning light.
And then I was boy, embodied
and benevolent. And then I was handsome, hanging
on your every word. And then I was gravel voice
and gray-evening-haloed in tobacco
& then I was beautiful again.

I couldn’t keep pretending I wasn’t. Lips berried
with vulgar smarts. A fifth of whiskey easy
on the way down. A baby-eyed big talker.
One does not become beautiful overnight.
There is a ceremony in this release.
There is grief in the cutting away of flesh.
In the leap from the jetty. It is an ugly feeling, truly,
to touch your own beauty for the first time and realize
how many years you denied yourself to yourself.
How you foraged and flailed and reached for the things
furthest from your own face,
catching fistfuls of nothing but the quiet.
How you believed in a god
not strong enough to see themselves in you.

How you let them make you into a monster,
or a fantasy, or salvation
like you weren’t an offering.
Like you weren’t conjured from the people
in every corner of the planet. 
Like you might spend your whole life
apologizing for the things they could not hold,
for all of the ways in which you are wayward.

But mostly, for making them into lies–liars.
How you never saw what they saw when they saw you.
How you never defined the sun by the way it looks
dipping below the horizon, never allowed the thunderclap
to scare you from summer rains.
How you gave up being someone’s idea of ugly.
How maybe you were never good at pretending.

 

Kelsey L. Smoot (they/them/he/his) is a gender theorist, a committed Southerner, a writer, and a poet. Their work and writings explore the process of identity formation at the intersection of race, gender, and sexuality. Selfhood and cultural constraints—such as masculinity and its associated expectations—coalesce in their writing. Their autoethnographic style has become a lens through which they understand their personal experience traversing the US sociopolitical landscape. Having grown up bicoastal and spending the majority of their adult life in a state of transience, Kels draws from his eclectic life experiences both deep fear and great optimism regarding what people are capable of. This tension is reflected in his published writing which can be found in Barely South Review, The Guardian, HuffPost, Voicemail Poems, The Amistad, and at their website, queerinsomniac.me When not writing, Kels can be found performing at The Space (a premiere open-mic based in Kennesaw, Georgia), perusing an antique store, or running the streets with their bois.

Mads Lupold is a nonbinary collage artist, production designer, and writer based in Austin, Texas. When they aren’t giving themselves paper cuts, they work with children at spilled milk social club and create flowers out of scrap records for Gold Rush Vinyl. Mads also works on local film sets creating environments out of props, set design/decorating, and costuming. They write anything from children’s cooking shows to apocalyptic body horror in their free time. Their art centers around whimsy, discomfort, childhood, lack of bodily control, and whatever else they are feeling in the moment. Mads can be found on instagram at @madjoy42.

Delusionship Bingo

Picasso! Paint red flags green.	45 minutes late to the date that isn’t a date.	They’re just friends with their ex.	Being the more interesting half of your conversations.	They have a lot going on* *note: anything that requires clarification can be considered a lot going on.
Intimacy beginning and ending at the closeness of your skin.	. I should get this for them!	I love you  before the first argument.	Speaking honestly only after you’ve swallowed spirits braver than you.	Butterflies! or Anxiety!
Checking your phone every two minutes for a text you won’t receive for two hours  or two days.	They’re soo cute! (true)	Free Space! For your childhood.	Covertly checking their instagram.	Underestimating your self worth.
Random bouts of jealousy.	Making them a playlist.	Sex Fantasies.	They’re not into labels	Intense fear of dying alone.
Wanting. Wanting more.   Wishing you were enough.	Thriving on Praise.	Hey Siri, play Why Don’t You Love Me by Beyoncé.	Always texting first.	Canceling plans to make time for them. Time for them becoming Time.

Nnenna Loveth Umelo Uzoma Nwafor (they/she) is an Igbo lesbian poet, performer, and facilitator. Their work explores Black g*rlhood, Black queerness, Igbo Cosmology, Sensual play and rituals of healing. Nnenna published their debut chapbook, Already Knew You Were Coming, with Game Over Books in January of 2022 and has also been featured on Button Poetry, WBUR’s ARTery, VIBEs Magazine, and Ujima #Wire. When they speak, their ancestors are pleased. Please follow their work on IG @pleasure.as.compass or at pleasurearthealing.com

And on the twelfth night, they said watch out we’ve got a biter.                 
                         And so I woke up on my twentieth birthday in no one’s bed but my own
and I’m certain it’s because of who I was when I was blonde. I think your dad     
caught me trying to exorcize hindsight last time I was over at your house because nothing
haunts me more than knowing the things I could have done differently                       
if only I had 20/20 vision. I think that freaked your dad out and not just because he’s    
walking McCarthyism and I’m gayer than the literary canon.                              
I’ve always had a sweet tooth for libel within reason and a heart made of
biodegradable straws now and then and now you’re all fascists but I can’t say      
that you are because that’s not polite and I’ve been trying my best to be polite     
since I started wearing that God damn cone-like someone’s ball-less dog.             
     You’d hate to feel like that, wouldn’t you? I don’t think you could
pull it off, not like I can. When you can pull off calves that aren’t pretty enough
to be saved from becoming a half-eaten burger you can pull off anything.                 
              When I drive with you in shotgun,  I can see you pull on                                                      
 the grab handle when it’s my mom’s red minivan.                                         
you laugh at me when I say even that’s political. Similar to how America is the
best country in the world like how the used car dealership off Calle Rojo has the
best Hondas. If you had it your way I would have become normal the minute
I walked out of that bathroom stall. The one where you wrote your
phone number when we were freshmen in spirit.
And I knew then that I had no intention of ruining your life but
Then again…when in Rome.

 

Merlin June Mack (they/them) is a hemiplegic writer from Southern California. When they aren’t writing they can be found reading a book with at least one good literary motif in it. Merlin has been previously published in magazines such as The Lavender Review and Does It Have Pockets Magazine. Their work has also been Best of Net nominated. Merlin is currently working towards a BFA in creative writing at Southern Oregon University. You can find more of them @ merlin_june_is_a_lover on Instagram.

for a

remember: all the bike lanes end in Roxbury. when that one cop fell down the slide, we expected him to shoot the whole damn playground. WholeFoods only farms data now but the landlord had blue hair and pronouns so we forgot that Monopoly was a threat. the world dropped its laundry to look for those billionaires when the Ocean was a comrade and in the horror movie no one was shocked that we died first. the past tense wants us gone, after all. when the surprise guest at the DNC was COVID no one was actually surprised, just coughed a laugh and made us tinfoil hats. i used to think Brad Pitt was a bad choice in that zombie film until we saw who survives and you said we must expect to fail so that we keep trying. hope never fit well between our rough shoulders, beloved. again i say: how could i blame you, beloved?

 

Em Roth (they) is a mad educator and organizer based in Boston. They believe in the promise of liberation and are enamored with the way goats look in the sunset. They have been previously published in BRAWL Lit and Libre, and have work forthcoming in The B’K.

beginning with a line from Megan Fernandes

Every poet has a love affair with a bridge.
Mine was the Brooklyn—of course,

though it wasn’t for anyone’s ghost who floated across
then seemed to wave goodbye as they drowned.

I was in love with the drive to a cramped room 
in the attic floor of a Fort Greene brownstone.

The tin ceiling shimmered with heat as we laid 
naked under her bedsheets, talking, then

not, as the hours deepened. The drive to her
was always calm: after three hours on the highway,

parting Merritt Parkway’s darkness
with my headlights, I’d slide down the side 

of Manhattan by midnight. Mileage mounting
on my dash—hundreds, thousands of miles

covered by a car with a flickering headlight—
I’d glance at the silhouettes of skyscrapers,

the river dotted by ships, lamps on in offices,
bedrooms rented, owned, or borrowed.

In the cool rush of the midnight 
highway, I had the city to myself.

I could have pulled off FDR Drive
and rented one of those rooms. Or

I could have pulled over. I could have
sat in that darkness, my car rocking side 

to side as each truck and semi hissed by.
I could have gotten out and climbed

between the diagonal beams, balanced
on the edge of the bridge and let 

a sea breeze sweep my back. I listened
to the rhythmic thumping of my wheels

rocking each concrete plate as I hurtled
down the highway. I thought of us, still 

breathless, lighting a joint on the windowsill
and sharing it in the dark. I watched the reflections

of the beams rise and fall across the gloss
of my hood. I glanced at the water.

Its countless, shimmering stars. I couldn’t stop 
watching that famous, repeated plunge

into the river. I wanted her. Because I did,
I always will. Every poet has a love affair

with a bridge. I was in love with the drive
across mine to midnight’s other shore.

 

Robin’s poems have appeared in beestung, Impossible Task, Midway Journal, Poetry Online, and Quarter After Eight, among others. She studied literature and creative writing at Hampshire College and works as a substitute teacher in Holyoke, where she grew up. https://linktr.ee/arblerobin.

says a curly haired young man on the B line to Boston College on the eve
of trans day of remembrance. I am trying
to get to Brighton where my beloved waits, but the train keeps skipping

and the lights blinking out. “Major moves,” he repeats as the brakes
cry for help. I imagine every person I see on the train
could be trans. I imagine they could be harboring this same fear.

So many lost. So many killed. So many misknown.
Now he talks about artificial intelligence. The selfmade intelligence
of every trans person claiming their own right to be

what they are compels me more. 
“I don’t want to wait fifteen years to get there,” he says. I don’t want to wait
fifteen years for an affirmation of life. Fifteen years from now,

will I still hold my beloved all night? The train stops again. The train and I,
we know what it means to falter. To wish the tracks were kinder. “All the people
I gravitate towards are older.” Every trans person who is older than me

is a treasure. I get off the train a stop early because I am afraid of derailment.

 

C.M. Green is a Boston-based writer with a focus on history, memory, gender, and religion. Their work has been published or is forthcoming in Full House Literary, Southeast Review, ANMLY, and elsewhere. Their debut hybrid chapbook, I Am Never Leaving Williamsburg, is out with fifth wheel press in February 2025, and their poetry chapbook Without Instruction is forthcoming from JAKE in 2025. They stand for a free Palestine and encourage you to find tangible ways to do the same. You can find their work at cmgreenwrites.com.