by keenan t. smith
myself, in skin tight Black nylon, stretching for a corrupt smooth. I pull them high up to my waist, skyward. Tearing them apart in the morning, mourning for my mother and never myself. Feel that? do it again, a new feel. Like an old glove, Girl, you’re undone at the seams like my dewy smile. Singing, dancing, and the pink sun hitting my spine while on the eastside highway. I feel colored, a holy crayola, the spirit of self design. Ancient Feminine, Assata, Diana, Angela, Matrons of an Aged War, I evoke your strength in these fabrics. Bound to what I should be, I’d rather you be, in this moment than me.
And when the white church bells screech, and the blue flames of their lips, and their blood stained imagination try to claim them, me, worry not; these are diamond laced, impervious, and born of the weight of two cities and the ivory shit my sins. On the border, disoriented and dead eyed, Girl, find me tight find me tight find me tight find me tight, or don’t.
The first edition of Hoot's new mini magazine. Featured in this edition: BadLib Cosmetics, Edas Jewels, Isidoro Francisco, and MUZA. Produce...