Poetry: body does 11 by Jonathan Jacob Moore

wring liquor out of lips, craft cabernet out of thirst

whine hips with bullets on back eyes on waist
chart the course of someone else’s freedom i
remind men of when they were boys & more afraid of the dark than the
darkness that dances behind eyelid when bodies
are too close to letting light
pass through i
swallow things
photosynthesize the eyes of violent trees
make pie with their honey

serve it to them gladly &
go hungry
remind myself of when i was a boy more afraid of the dark than the
darkness
that swallows me when bodies
are this close i mold

mausoleum out of lip & teeth
eat up the closet bones sweet & guess the recipe
i
table and the cloth/call it home &
cook often i

refrigerate leftovers religiously.


jonathan jacob moore
Jonathan Jacob Moore

Jonathan Jacob Moore is a Black Mexican bitchboi & hoodqueer poet from Detroit. He studies Writing Blackness in the 21st Century United States at Tufts University. He’s the Founding President of the Spoken Word Alliance at Tufts & appreciates good hugs, cold cheesecake, and motor-city-sweet-Black pettiness. 

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Poetry: I Wanted To Say Goodbye But You Had Already Gone by j’sun howard

i won’t know where to go anymore.
i won’t even know the rules for
this leaving. i know it’s snowing and
tears are waking up in my eyes
as this lyric with nothing to say.
i know i’m walking. and i’m alone.
i know i’m not scared. it snows.

this must be how angels feel too.
this must be how you can’t let
go but have to let go and
see an amber glow glow. how long
will this night be not real? soon
you’ll be another phantom. i don’t know
how my body will handle this vacancy.


jsun howard
j’sun howard

j’sun ​howard ​is a dancemaker and writer (sick of) living in Chicago, his work attempts to deconstruct the celestial body, his short fiction and poems have been in Chicago IRL, Inkwell, Danspace’s Constellations and Influences, Garland Court Review, Storyglossia, 3rd Language, Bird’s Thumb, and Manifold, The Body, most recently his poetry/dance collaboration, Utopic Monster Theory, with ​poet ​Jennifer Karmin has been performed​ in exhibitions “I Can’t Breathe” at ARC Gallery, “Law and Disorder” at Women Made Gallery, and in​ ​Small Traffic Press’s​ ​production​ o​f Poets Theater Festival (San Franci​sco),​ find him online…

Poetry: Two Poems by Jayy Dodd

When A Nigga Call You a Faggot

You gotta laugh at least once.
Like the pot calling the kettle
A more dangerous thing.

When he spits it your mouth,
you must swallow the sour,
hurt of anxiety. How your lips
make him salivate.

When he swings his fist,
duck down and tackle him to
the ground with soft kisses.

When a nigga call you a faggot,
He’s calling you by his first name.
He’s telling you about his-self.

His own fault lines splitting his tongue,
toxic and tender. He’s crying for help
from the bottom of the ocean.

When it discharges from his throat,
imagine it lands on the shores
of which both your bodies washed up.

When a nigga calls you a faggot,
you still gotta call him brother.
You still gotta pray he makes it
home at night.

 

An Elegy for a Brotha

Sickness is silence conforming to death in
serious moonlights. At the shore, leaving
our sandals by the boardwalk before
nightfall.

Survivors of midnight ceremonies seek
different satisfactions on their stomachs.
Strip your back, bare and fresh, reminding
the moon of his youth.

As the under current prepares the sea,
confess your desires in waves, in hymns
crashing on the flesh.

There is no mercy for the warriors and
outlaws and brothers but the weapons
carried are not forgotten.

By the morning you are made new, whole.
We will have dancing and sweat.


jayy dodd is a homeboy writer and poetry editor from Los Angeles, now based in Boston. his work speaks to survivals of soft black boys. his essays and poems have been / will be seen in The Offing, Huffington Post, Blavity, Lambda Literary, and Crab Fat Magazine. his chapbook [sugar in the tank] is forthcoming on Pizza Pi Press, early next year. find him online at jayydodd.com

Poetry: when alkebulan is stuck on repeat by Ashanti

when your heart is unbalanced & your honeyed sunshine cloud of an afro is pulled at the roots like you like & there are no photos to want to remember & you replay the memories like her tape deck is stuck & you walk to a small club on U Street and know nothing of the rules of engagement or the tropics & the showcase is loud but the people move, slow and intimate & you’re thinking with a sensitive brain & now her hands are up your heather grey skater dress & your black brocade g string is sitting on the sidelines of your thighs now & your mouth is made bone / oh but that other mouth is open and flowing & her fingers are being fed deeper and lovelier & literature, music, live painting, song, poetry, common sense all bleed into a colorful background & rum and coke is flowing past your lips into your eyes fueling your bloodstream like a race & this makes the moans comfortable & that wet spot is proud and big like your sounds wish to grow & my friends are watching & we keep going & this is my first date & she was 27 & i was 19

when your hormones are raging the day after valentine’s day & we met again & shared my virginity in seconds and thirds and fourths and fifths and sixths and seventh hours on a twin sized bed in Wheatley 215 left side & i wasn’t looking for another mother & you weren’t her anyways & when i called you Daddy, your heart and pussy did swoon & still we met for a month of weekends & let me flesh out poems & we made good use of that PhD you were receiving from UMD & i was left on my way as you went yours & thank you because mother still thinks she failed at raising me as a lady & the best side of my heart knows that Joslyn hasn’t soured in my mouth & skin & bed of my mind & my pen, either. & i’ll always know she first tasted agave nectar from my fingers, tinted of strawberry & the satisfaction of her mouth tasting of honey and ambrosia from my flesh.