Sacreligious Salacious Zine

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THE ESTUARY COLLECTIVE PRESENTS

AN

EROTIC

ZINE


when they are crawling under the curtain of my thighs. how else to be devoured by wildfire but to plunge into the plumes. how else to desire; they are ravenous, spreading skin to the sides for velvet. the apple is bruised, red and fat-bottomed when they cup it. and cut it. ichor drips down the middle once they’ve sucked from the slit. the snake tells me how to feed them: split the core, let myself be emptied 'til it's just the skin and a smattering of seeds.

JASMINE SIERRA IS AN MFA STUDENT AT SPALDING UNIVERSITY, ASSISTANT EDITOR OF THEIR LITERARY JOURNAL & WORKING ON HER FIRST POETRY COLLECTION. PROUD OF HER EXPERIENCES AS A BLACK, POLYAMOROUS WOMAN.


He

talks

Like

I

to

didn’t Like

I

that Like

I I

As As

if if

As

conversation

wasn’t

the

lighter

flood

me

I

I if I

do

with

he he

him

will

not

not

am

his

He as

if

I

prefer

don’t

if

I

am

/feel night

fiend

the

race

conqueror further

with

hear

the

and

contextual to

me

blessing

been

wishes

on

/all/

the

engage

made As

last

dam

chosen

make

the

embellished

and

carry

prize

not

not

gates

been

will

has

am I

to

weren’t

he

permission

hasn’t

listen

if

me

the

not

good/That

fucking

start him

he

Telling

about

gave

am

Like

As

me

overflow desire

me to

/moan/

hear

them

myself

not,my

own,

playground

sexual


I

am

a

sexual

Serving

in

Giving

order

in

so

To

I

to

He I

envelope

erotic

my

lips

You

his

is

out

I,

Coerce

are

of

not

can

the

you

sounds

Willing as

he

my

tell to

Step

in

into

when

are

mine

and

toe

curls

name woman own

who

loves

moans

worshipped

bended my

knees

throne

/my/cunning my

you’re

me

her

be

becoming Drowning

a

of

takes

selfishness

surrender

twists

carry What

own

groans

body

dick

desires

my

with Those

his

own

yourself

Those

ego

around

Delectable it

satiated

thinks,

for When

take

pleased

feel

/my/

receive

to

be

can

feed

to

order

Looking just

narcissist

salacious

linguistics sanctuary

LYSZ FLO IS AN AFROLATINX, TRILINGUAL SPOKEN WORD ARTIST, AUTHOR OF FICTION AND POETRY, MEMBER OF ESTUARY COLLECTIVE, PUBLISHED NOVEL SOLILOQUY OF AN ICE QUEEN 2020.


Your

lace

bra

swings

bedstead

like

a

plucked to

and

garland

placed

decorate

on

our

the of

with

bed,

a

flowers

patience

grassland

beneath a

sickle

moon,

accessory

perfect

to

love-making. the

the

running

Suddenly faucet,

a

sea

beside

our soft

brown

sand

bed,

floods

the

room and

your

seashell

bra

that

has

survived many

lives

unplucked,

unnourished, isn’t

coy

unhinged,

anymore.

SHAMAYITA SEN IS A PHD RESEARCH CANDIDATE AT THE DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH, UNIVERSITY OF DELHI.HER FIRST COLLECTION OF POEMS, "FOR THE HOPE OF SPRING: HYBRID POEMS," IS PUBLISHED BY HAWAKAL PUBLISHERS (2020).


YOU in

CALL

your

a

MY

mouth,

spell—a

What

for

NAME

become

prayer.

price

this

I

will

I

have

We

to

to

play

humanity,

but

your

caressing bone.

when

pay

What

left

like

deny

I

baptismal

understanding?

do

&

at

can’t

teeth

my I

I

give?

thigh

come

beckoned.

"VICTORIA MENDOZA (SHE/HER/HERS) IS A FILIPINA-/MEXICAN-AMERICAN POET SHE CAN FOUND ON TWITTER @MAGPIEGENERAL. "

BE


paint all

down

my

make

not

KB

NELSON WORK IN SURVISION, SKY REVIEW

red

crimson

a

like that

skin

smooth

me

me

like

lipstick

and

raspberry

paint

like

up

me

not

red

over

paint

make

me

scarlet

Mountie a

whore

won’t

let

you

look

IS A CANADIAN WRITER. YOU CAN FIND A VARIETY OF PUBLICATIONS INCLUDIN BETHLEHEM WRITERS ROUNDTABLE, SEA , AND POLAR BOREALIS. PAINT ME RED BEEN PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED.

away.

HER G -TOHAS


We sat together. I, a part of them White sheets and covers, curls on the pillow Spread like wildfire, Mine in a bun neat, tied with a string. I look at her Friend, confidante, lover Now. Finger, moving in circles, at the nape of my neck, While his hand snaps, At the string, my hair falling To the hook. Her eyes – Baring seven years of longing -close as I bend down, my hook undone. feel his scruff on my back, Her lover, now mine. And as I press her earlobe against my lips, Soft, pulsating skin in my mouth, His lips touch my back. Her, my friend, confidante, lover Now seven years of ignorance melting, Into a tiny affirmative, Hardening on my tongue Supple, brown, majestically rising. I marvel as she draws in a deep breath, Tracing, every inch, breathing her in. Her lover, slowly reaching down, Stroking, fingers, one and two, Fingers, strange fingers in me, strumming Up and down, dancing In and out

I


Her palm on my breast, His on my waist, I bend down to taste the nectar And I feel him slipping, his arm Extending to pull back my hair, She loves him, I know As she holds my hair for him. His breathing loud, Her’s louder, Thighs clasp around My face hiding in the burrow, Like my secrets tucked in her heart, for seven, six, eternity. I close my eyes, Screaming both she and I. We’re one I think, my lover, Her lover, my lover now, Again, tomorrow– His eyes searching mine, Her eyes, his. I run, hide behind the seven long years. Lost, I fear. Sometimes, her musk, my body in the dark.

his

sweat,

Still

ride

Pragya Anurag is a research scholar at Jawaharlal Nehru University, Delhi, India. She writes and lives poetry.


By Jeni De La O -- Published in Obra/Artifact Winter 2019


Under white linen, bent knees, face lowered to the altar, I confessed to she. Her lips parted, fragrant, she uttered, “Let your tongue confess.” I lifted my eyes unto her supple hills, from whence my tongue previously presided. Showing my recommitment in sloppy, slow, slick, laps of devotion. Her lips pulsating, my sacral petals finally opening... I found atonement in her bare, her gushy, her cocoa, her rough and her smooth. Rediscovered purity in-between her sighs… Her shea-butter-dripped thighs… The prodigal woman has returned back to the hers. Where

she

belongs…

JASMINE FARRELL IS AN AUTHOR FROM BROOKLYN. SHE BELIEVES POETRY CAN CREATE A POSITIVE MENTAL SPACE, WHERE READERS FEEL SELF-ASSURED ENOUGH TO MOVE FORWARD, WITHOUT FEAR WHAT OTHERS THINK. SHE WANTS PEOPLE TO RECLAIM WHO THEY SO, THEY CAN LIVE LIFE AUTHENTICALLY.

HER CAN OF ARE


You with

are

most

mascara

beautiful

running

to

from

me,

your

hooded

eyes. Obsidian

slates your

Making

their

racing

freckled

way

Arched

the

on

collar

bones.

of

jaw,

down,

your

pronounced

furrowed

feeding

hills

delicate

dripping

mouth Gracefully

your

sweat

eyebrows

the

cheeks.

down

rhythmically staining

down

and

fruitful

agape. my

ears

with

sensual

blazing

within.

sounds that An

fan

the

eternal

hearth-fire

flame

to

match

those

of

the

Valkyries. While

you

desperately

dig

your

claws

in

my

spine. Tautly

tie

your

riverbed

thrusting Slick seeping

petals

from

the me

of

nymph my

around

the

stern.

taste to

legs

ambrosia,

that

has

stricken

core.

Ruby is a 23-year old Mexican-Cuban poet that wrote a book titled "Relationships Painted in Red" from her experiences in love and heartbreak as well as her war with her mental health within one year.


Sing songs in delicate whispers that hum in my scarlet ears as you fall from grace to coat the inside of the beating peony. Watch you disappear into the well of my iris, fold your limbs into my mouth, & savor the southern sea under the solid air. Every rib echoes the desperation of the humming string of the violin & some call this living but I know this is the moment when adam touched the hand of god. Fingers grazing the moment of truth nestled neatly in the utterance of yes beneath the gasping carnation that ignites in the springtime sun & beckons the mouth to part in a symphony of ivory, swallowed sound you pull out in shuddering breaths. Yes, satisfy our trembling hunger like the first apple of the lord who on this day made the sun that hides deep inside my body which you lasso again & again until the white light banishes every creeping dark, bringing in the sweet rains that dance along the grooves of your hips as I swallow your cries on the weary wind. Love this bright heaven, so luminous & full that history cannot be swallowed, only the future as I press my lips to your warm body that embraces me like ceremony in the wake of the dawn.


Deep breath. Inhale burning wood & chestnut sweet vanilla leaving footprints down the blushing hollows of your neck off to drown in the salt of your skin. Berry, juniper, lingers on my tongue hand dances on the curve of your back, cresting in stolen breaths slipping through your teeth. How grand the orange blossom blooms. I puck the petals with my teeth & cover myself in their whimpering cloves. Distance melts in balsam smoke & tender fingers devour pink peppercorns caught in the space between your thighs. Need is the well of your eyes Swallowing me whole.

Morgan L. Ridgway is a queer Black/Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape writer and historian from Philadelphia, PA. They are currently completing a PhD in history and dancing along the way. Their work is forthcoming in Rabbit and Rose. They tweet @morgan_ridgway. Writer of both Exaltation and Replica...


Italicized sections are taken from “Próximo a Dios” and “Canción desnuda” by Julia de Burgos I claim this prayer— Guanajibo River unknotting its rapids, muscle unraveling after the pressure. Yo no supe guardarme de invencibles corrientes. I ask for a prayer— When the night is long and our hands free, tell me what your thighs hold. Nuestras manos fecundas Nuestras manos cercanas a Dios En la noche, las luc sólo cuando cerramos No me dejes ciega en tu que las olas de tus pup Nuestros ojos tendidos ab

are

es se apagan nuestros ojos. paraíso, querido, ilas son mi mar. arcarán el cosmos.

I tend to this prayer— Constellation of freckles in every corner, your body a frenzied universe I traverse: smooth skin, brown paradise. Your shoulders— my horizon of flash and roar. Habrá revolución en el espacio.


made up this prayer— we don’t need help from gods when bodies have already collided. Our sweat an archipelago gods wish they could invade. We will not colonize anyone but each other — Tú amarás mis brazos Tú amarás mis fragilidades Tú amarás tu cuerpo para yo así amarle también I run to t solace in moving every second closer Me solté a la pureza Me solté. Te

his prayer— towards your orbit to infinite blessings— de un amor sin ropajes miré. Te seguí.

I seduce this prayer— ¡Yo fui la Vida, amado! Our landscapes enliven the landmarks of our ancestors, those hushed by greed. Here we are. Here we are! La vida que pasaba por el canto del ave y la arteria del árbol. I sing this prayer— Ocean dancing with us as moon, rain falling as our waves dampen the guilty’s fervor. Off you go, gringos! Nosotros tenemos canciones más allá de la muerte. Our clear night clamors for clearer days. These bodies are !en

ready to fly with the sun! ¡en recuerdo de pájaros! recuerdos de independencia!


I erase this prayer— May my passion be birthed in my mother tongue. Alabanza al espíritu febril. Misericordia para los que desconocen mi latir. Perdón a los olvidados por el diario vivir. ¡Qué gozo despertar con los pecados del amor! Me Me

agarré

agarré

a

a la

la

hora

hora

loca,

fecunda.

¡Qué cercanos de Dios se alzarán nuestro pasos— Cuerpos celestes fusionando con el mar del que nacieron: Clavicula amarrada a labios pelo enfuscado en mandíbula humedad en las pestañas dedos temblando de fulgor— contagiados de alas!

Nicole Arocho Hernández is a poet and translator from Cabo Rojo, Puerto Rico. She is pursuing an MFA in Poetry at Arizona State University. Her first chapbook, I Have No Ocean, is forthcoming with Sundress Publications. You can find her on Twitter/Instagram: @nimaarhe.


Teeth the

sunk

into

crossing

uncrossed, That

of

tart a

flesh

threshold

unprayed,

trickle

of

are

sweet

that

uncried juice

cannot

be

away.

that

waters

the

mouth and

smacks

is

machete’s

a

cut

off

the

from,

lips

and

curls

in

your

belly

thwack:

given

over

to

what

is

what

is

holy

and

unholy, what I

is

Loved

Godly, my

and

Mama

first,

ungodly.

then

Jesus,

then

mangoes. I

Loved

grew cut

off,

eyes I

to

God

next,

Love

that

given

opened,

knew

God,

then

I

man,

loved

a

man,

thwack:

over— knowing

good

and

evil,

once.

Jeni De La O is an AfroCuban poet and storyteller out of Detroit. She is the Managing Editor of Kissing Dynamite Poetry. Her column, BROWN STUDY can be found at The Poetry Question. Catch up with her at www.croquetalessinthecity.com.


Is

a

not-for-profit

Femmes safe

who

aim

intentional provide

support how

to

to

Folx

expand

by

provide

access,

spaces,

access

Black

created

to

uplift,

tools:

in

their

four

Black create

inspire

and

to

fuel

and

learning

and

sharing

wings

the

Poetry

in

community.

We

hold

workshops,

readings,

For

more

and

craft

so

talks,

much

information

poetry

more.

please

visit

https://www.estuarycollective.org/

To

support

our

mission

please

https://ko-fi.com/tec

visit


LYSZ

FLO

-

EDITOR