THE ESTUARY COLLECTIVE PRESENTS
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.
I if I
name woman own
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.
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).
"VICTORIA MENDOZA (SHE/HER/HERS) IS A FILIPINA-/MEXICAN-AMERICAN POET SHE CAN FOUND ON TWITTER @MAGPIEGENERAL. "
NELSON WORK IN SURVISION, SKY REVIEW
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.
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
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.
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
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
sounds that An
thrusting Slick seeping
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 &amp; 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
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
¡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.
unholy, what I
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.