The CookOut Literary Journal

e Cookout Literary Journal Table of Contents Editor’s Note

pg. 3

PRIZE WINNER: Necropsy Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan

pg. 4

Church Cousins Darnell “DeeSoul” Carson

pg. 6

when i say dead on being called a dyke Brittany Marshall

pg. 8 pg. 9

FRUIT Ayanna Albertson

pg. 10

Gentrification LeChell “ e Shootah” Rush Honorat

pg. 12

Black Comedy Ryan Boyland

pg. 13

erapy Madina Jah

pg. 15

S. 18th Street Fresh Linen

pg. 16

ere’s a Noun I Can’t Pronounce Alexandria a Great

pg. 19

A Deportee Returns Michael Fraser

pg. 21

Marsha P. Johnson, A Golden Shovel Anthony McPherson

pg. 22

Contributor Bios

pg. 23

Editor’s Note Dear Reader, What brings me to this collection, and ultimately, to this art form, is the dedication to the written and oral tradition that lit a fire within us in the first place. We create poetry, not because we were taught what a poem was, but because, for the poet, language is o ten the most e fective tool to articulate the human experience. We are in a moment in history where public engagement with poetry is nearing an all-time high.

Where those whose voices have historically gone unheard are breaking through across a multitude of platforms. Be it social media posts, protest signs, or shared discussions across the dinner table, our pull towards language o ten unearths the most intimate of us that aches to be revealed.

With “ e Cookout” Literary Journal, that revelation--that shared space, that pull towards a community that seeks to understand and be understood--continues to unfold over the course of the next several pages. Every poem is borne out an ongoing tradition of experiencing and sharing language, and for Black writers, authors and poets, we o ten find those experiences alongside others: watching someone spit a poem for the first time at an open mic, sharing new works with a group of friends, cheering in the audience as someone spills out their heart in a slam. ese poems cling towards someone, something, ask to be listened to, even if, first, by the poet who wrote it. ese poems have both their literary hands out, aiming to touch, and oh, do they.

I was honored to curate this collection of poems from Black writers without the barrier of a paywall or a submission fee. I, alongside several readers, were able to sit with the poems that remind us why we came to this work from the very beginning--from before the prizes and before the publications. In the moments where we first archived the messy, overwhelming and most precious of our lives into writing, we began to grow into poets in our own right. is collection honors the voices of Black folks as both an archaeological project and as a celebration, both as a memory and a mystical encounter. “ e Cookout” o fers a plate re: poem for every reader who is willing to hold it, hot, with both hands, for us and by us. I hope you enjoy them.

Sincerely, Aris Kian Brown Editor-in-Chief

"Necropsy"

Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan my father opens up his body into a morgue

says it's the safest way

to unmake a faulty body & name it an overpopulated community of silence--cold penance I'm doctoring: everything strokes him into ischemic island & when God forgets the works of His hands

blood becomes a terrible

enjambment that runs into streams of sugar until a man's bladder becomes a looded crater at the mercy of an infirmary I saw how my father betrayed his hospital bed the moment the seventh patient beside him died he returned home with his pallid body as a relief camp unworthy to be called a miracle but who will out of culture trust the earth enough to throw an open invitation to the grave during a feast when the grave itself is a greedy glutton? who?

who?

I still fear I fear that when next it rains heavily & the earth tricks him into a potbellied river his banks may become a popular drunk & I don't trust the longevity of such gi t--chaos he says to me: son sometimes we look so skimpy a ter a torture from death

other times we plumage

vigour when the sun's rays hit us in the right places, in all

always walk away from the turf drinking you

into a surge I shaved my tongue into a padre & performed a benediction of survival on his behalf & I hope the incense from this liturgy clears up the lood in his body

Church Cousins

Darnell “DeeSoul” Carson Because someone’s asked the question & now we have to go through all the trouble of explaining how exactly are we related again? & how we aren’t, exactly, it’s just that our families have broken bread on too many occasions for us to remember. Our mothers sang together in the choir long before we had the language to speak to one another, before we argued during Sunday School, before you stole my extra serving of animal crackers during the lesson on Noah’s ark. I don’t know.

It’s hard to explain. I know we aren’t related, exactly, & I also know that sometimes I’m not sure if I believe in God or just want to, but I know if we’re acting up in the pews & auntie points at us from the choir stand with a look that says Y’all gon get this ass-whooping a ter service, both of us better start praying. I know our fathers put the same holy ghost fire in their hands when they unspare the rod. I know. I don’t know.

I don’t know when the blood that covers us & the blood that runs through our veins became the same thing, but I know when we communion, as o ten as we do, I drink in remembrance of you. Before I had Christ, you were the gospel I sang on the way to church, my protection as I passed the car crash on the I-5, my Fred Hammond & Kirk Franklin & Mary Mary.

When asked how we’re related, I say I’ve known you

like scripture, like something that’s been in me long before I belonged to myself.

O, how your love kept me and keeps me and carries me through all my weary days.

O, my altar, how I come to you at my lowest: the night my friend divorced his spirit from his body; the days I wasn’t sure if I could keep from doing the same.

When I ask for mercy, it is you, always you, who rebukes my hands, praise-stomps my urge to make a tomb of myself, convinces me heaven can wait a day.

When I pray for deliverance, you are never too far behind.

when i say dead Brittany Marshall when i say dead i mean My Brother/ tall/

and/dirt dark/

shovel deep/ into the earth /

i mean i wore a white dress to his funeral

/and I have not worn it since/

when i say dead /i mean sometimes i dream about His Body/

dripping down to earth/

from the end of the sun

/to the beginning of dirt/between

then/and now i see him

drip

insignificant /until he isn’t

/when i say dead /i mean hollow/

drip

dripping/

than a body knows what to do with/i mean casket sharp my throat

/ clogged /

absence of organs/more air an un linching beauty/ i mean

with the rust from My Brother’s gold teeth / when i say dead/ i mean

one time i asked him why you only wear white shirts/ to which he responded/cuz a nigga gotta stay casket sharp/ you know how niggas like to dress fresh to death/ i mean fresh/

or i mean Dirt/

so when i say dead

or i mean My Brother or i mean my brother dressed up

in dirt/ or i mean dirt dressed with My Brother’s fresh body/ when i say dead/ i mean My Brother ain’t so fresh no more/

i mean My Brother’s white shirt became a bloody mess/

i mean the dirt stole My Brother’s clothes/ and le t me with the bones/

when i say dead

i mean/ i still have his shoes in my closet/ even the pair with blood splattered on them/ i still have his white shirts/ they don’t smell like him anymore/ when i say dead i mean i’ve forgotten how my brother smells/ i only recognize the smell of dirt

& this dirt smells like nothing/

when i say dead i mean/i don’t know how many siblings i have any more/

sometimes i say 2/

sometimes i say 3/ sometimes i say nothing/

i say nothing at all

/when i say dead i mean/ sometimes i go home & whisper My Brother’s Name to the night/ & the only thing i can hear is the sound of dirt

crumbling out of my mouth.

on being called a dyke Brittany Marshall

the word dyke means not my daughter. the first time it came looking for me i cried. i’ll admit it. it came from the mouth of the woman who gave me my smile—who took the gapped teeth from her mouth and copied them into my own. she took my name from me and she tried to take my smile. she said i was undeserving of both—of anything. she said said you wanna be a dyke? fine. i’ll treat you like one. and her palm met my face the way sunshine meets the sky: blazing hot with the imprint le t out for everybody to see. for the whole day i wore the fire of my mothers rage across my cheek with it’s heat sliding into my mouth. and now, every time i smile i feel my mother’s fire pooling out between the gap in my teeth. if i keep this up, soon she’ll be nothing but ash.

FRUIT

Ayanna Albertson

I have known way too many black women's wombs turned casket Have seen decaying fruit plucked from her tree long before its rightful ripening How she magically carry the world on her shoulders but can’t hold on to the life that she prayed for I have known way too many black women bury children they never got the chance to raise Never got to teach them all the ways to stay alive To survive a world that won’t always want them here I Have heard the begging prayers of a broken woman How mocking it is to hear the cry of life beside your hospital room How the labor and delivery loor don’t always have happy endings How the bathroom loor be a bad and bloody memory How guilt and shame scream in the silence of her disbelief How her body a betrayal of trust and dependency I have witnessed the weight of what a beat-less ultrasound can do to ones psyche How group therapy be only a reminder and not a relief How grief be far too familiar a feeling infertility is the plague black communities forget to talk about but continuously su fer through How her womb a tomb for a child she has already given a name How her faith is fighting to feel like faith again How her faith is failing to feel like faith anymore I have seen the burden of black mothers carrying the cross of a failed resurrection How selfish of God to only bring back His son How cruel to know this world may have crucified him anyway How society wish to blame it on her soil But forgets to mention the disparities a fecting her lower bed Doesn’t hold the medical hands that tend to her garden accountable Doesn’t factor in structural racism Or the history of unfair healthcare practices that complicate conception

How the system still ain’t in the business of saving our seeds Won’t give black mothers the chance to see their Son’s shine.

Perhaps it’s because they don’t want to see us grow But we too rooted in resilience to let them stop us from rising You see Black women do not wilt for long How she use to being given more than she can bear Don’t always get to reap the fruits of her labor But she be a tree Grounded Unmoved Unbroken And still, she is worthy of a harvest A budding bundle of joy Bone of her bone Flesh of her lesh A lower she can hold alive and blooming.

Gentrification LeChell “ e Shootah” R.H. 1. the process whereby the character of a poor urban area is changed by wealthier people moving in, improving housing, and attracting new businesses, typically displacing current inhabitants in the process.

2. the process of making someone or something more refined, polite, or respectable.

-oxford languages a queer white man says his alter ego be a Black woman name Keisha… and Black women give a communal gasp. once again displaced from our own bodies, made a refugee in our own homes. call it ghetto then black face, a whitewashed costume for the fashion shows, magazine covers. give it a new name like boxer braids or mini buns. give it a television show and record deals. concert tickets my aesthetics will sell out but can’t a ford to buy so, you can “cash me outside” the venue. what a privilege to take on a persona not your own and be loved for it, never su fer the consequences yet reap all the benefits. white gay men be the posterchildren for the queer community, be the only lesh worthy of this identity holding power black femmes, died for.

Black Comedy Ryan Boyland

In my opinion, a joke is a lot like a metaphor. ey both have the same structure: Set up, then the punchline.

Like, ‘her voice played a song on my heartstrings.’ e set-up: ‘her voice played a song’ e punchline: ‘on my heartstrings.’

Or, two poets walk into a bar—the set up.

One says ouch, the other writes a poem about the bar owner making the space unsafe—the punchline. I’m not funny, but it makes sense.

You have the build-up, the tension— Give them something they expect then, take it away.

Example: Arizona frat house hosts an MLK themed party— is is the set up. baggy pants and ate watermelon.

e punchline—they wore

Or, Freddie Gray was found dead in the back of a police van following his arrest.

Two weeks later, a Baltimore police cruiser is found painted with the words: ‘enjoy your ride, cuz we sure will,’ and, I know, a homicide doesn’t usually lend itself to laughter, but this is just the kind of dark humor we deal with around here.

Call it ‘Black Comedy.’

Or,

When a Missouri security guard living a stone’s throw away from Ferguson asked for a Trayvon Martini, Michael Brown was laughing in his grave.

Apparently, it’s made from one part watermelon juice and one shot of vodka.

And, ‘it only takes one shot ‘cause it only took one to put him down!’

And isn’t it funny, the way ‘Black’ folds into ‘watermelon’ just as easily as a body bag?

Or, Local police find a dead Black boy covered in chains at the bottom of the Tallahatchie River— e sheri f looks at his deputy and says: ‘Ain’t it just like a nigger to steal more chain than he can carry?’

And all of Mississippi is still laughing.

And burning.

And somewhere in Chicago a closet of boy’s clothes is waiting to be sold to pay for a casket.

On October 22nd, 2018, Megyn Kelly cracked open her mouth just wide enough to let spill out the ghosts of Al Jolson and D.W. Gri fith.

Blackface is a humor reserved for those ignorant as to how easily a stubborn oak can become a burning cross.

Kelly says she doesn’t understand the problem, and I get that— I suppose a Klansman doesn’t look as scary when your mother’s the one who sewed the hood. ese days, I can’t worry about becoming a hashtag when my death is already the punchline.

It’s funny, the way a white mouth can become a black hole— And isn’t that the best kind of erasure?

Say a name so many times it becomes a joke.

Say it again and white laughter mu les the sound of thousands of nooses still swinging from poplar trees.

Say it again and we forget why we were ever crying.

Say it again and everything disappears.

Everything fades to Black.

THERAPY Madina Jah What do you do when you can't a ford therapy? And your hair is falling out and the customers are screaming and nagging and scratching and no this is not the pet cat you always wanted and the sun is too bright at night and the past is never the past and the past is never the past and the past is never the past and you think this is it the nervous breakdown and no the breathing doesn't work and the doctor says take it slow and you say show me show me slow and maybe you're just complaining but this modern society says you're not and even your community finally says you're not and your pockets say just forget it and you say just one more day I'll make it through and no rest for the little things that get you back to square one again and you keep wondering what will it be like when life is over and you keep wondering what it will be like when life is over and what do you do when you can't a ford therapy and someone from the back yells, pray! And no, no don't get me wrong I've never forgotten Allah and don't get me wrong I always pray and what do you do when you can't a ford therapy? I write...this

S. 18th Street Fresh Linen “No you cain’t come in In or out for ya!

Gotta plate and ya Best be eating something And take ya sista witcha Grandma watchin’ pictures Grandad in the kitchen And hey!

Ya better be home ‘Fore them streetlights come on.” e air smells like last day of school.

Fainting sounds of the principal’s well wishes while we whisp our way through the hallways.

Promise to always find all ways to keep in touch.

We lied.

But your crush and best friends saying “I’ll miss you” felt good.

Summer sunshine greets our smiles, while Cadillacs and Hondas pick up the future.

Radios brag about the drivers’ taste at tra fic lights, You sprint passed streetlights, but try to roll your feet so your walk man don’t skip.

If the CD scratched, then back to plan A/B. You waited all night to record your favorite jams on this cassette that was lowkey, your dad’s mixtape to your mother back in the day.

Oops.

Oh well.

For the time being everything is timeless.

Shoe untied and no real problems to tie us down.

On your way home you see that the fire hydrant block party already started.

Your school shoes and school clothes got a whole summer to get back to normal.

You dance to the club music and talk to strangers, but if anyone even stranger than them strays into the party, they’ll protect you.

It takes a village.

Today we seem to forget it.

Your black Power Ranger watch starts beeping, as it’s been too long, and you’re drenched.

Swing by the corner store before checking in with the barbers. ey don’t see you walk by, then it’s a problem.

Store feels like abuelo’s music and smells like tia’s casa.

Cashier is not of kin but we all call him papi.

He makes us take o f our bookbags at the door.

Don’t blame him for the precaution.

Bullet holes in the glass PTSD from the hood trynna rob him. e corner is home to tall boys with big shirts.

Always calling you “Lil Man”. ey make sure you like girls, so you lie and say you got like 4 girlfriends.

Do what you can to stand out enough to fit in. ey’re never in class but they give you a couple dollars and say “stay in school”.

Dad said they’re bums but they don’t look like, the crackheads singing o f key.

Always calling us cousin, but they never at the house to eat.

Probably because they have no teeth.

Grandma and Grandad on the porch.

Hands on hips and fighting back a smile,

Grandma looks in the sky and says we took a while.

Grandad with his Newports and a forty Tells her to leave us alone we made it.

She rolls her eyes and sings, “No you cain’t come in!

In or out for ya!

Gotta plate and ya Best be eating something.

Nah take ya sista witcha Grandma watchin’ pictures Grandad in the kitchen And hey!

Ya better be home ‘Fore them streetlights come on.”

ere Is A Noun I Can’t Pronounce Alexandria the Great Noun Definition of noun: A word (other than a pronoun) used to identify any of a class of people, places, or things (common noun) or to name a particular one of these (proper noun) 1. PERSON a. hugging the block b. dapping it up c. building his own language brick by brick with tools the ancestors sent d. first class e. high priority f. VIP g. red carpet treated royally h. speaks with a two syllable tongue i. diaspora by definition j. a renaissance k. a revolution l. masterpiece m. God’s anointed child 2. PLACE a. 19th century b. Jim Crow c. the American South d. the Atlantic Ocean transatlantic trading bodies e. confederacy f. traveling between two worlds g. city streets h. southern roots i. metaphysical j. transcending time and space k. heaven’s gate

3. THING a. a creature b. property c. contradictory d. inanimate object e. three fi ths of a human f. having no natural birth rights g. being full of ignorance h. lacking in knowledge i. Ingenious j. rejecting the King’s English k. of the utmost importance l. the realist

A Deportee Returns Michael Fraser He forgot snow, the mythical beauty like cold light beads tingling through his coat.

He forgot hunger and how the refrigerator held three chocolate bars placed on the middle rack, drawing eyes away from the stadium of empty space.

He tried to forget the constant calling-card ringing in his mind the two fatherless children half-clothed in Grenada.

He tried to forget saying yes to the neighbour’s boy whose eyes widened when he parted the fridge.

Marsha P. Johnson, A Golden Shovel Anthony McPherson e closest thing to destiny is . e dead determine who is and born human. Most of us start o f as to be used, but once they’re no longer allowed to use you’re as human as you’ve ever been, but to them, you like trash, an expired object. ey want to bring you to your former, acceptable place of purpose. ey want you in pris , the kitchen, the closet, the system, if they aren’t able to recycle you, they want you in the garbage. ey “ ere’s just evil people out in the world.

Nothing we can do about .” But there’s just dehumanizing ideologies that pollute the world, & there always another choice, but they chose to delay and worsen the inevitable.

Our

history isn’t something you, look back

on and say, it was

inevitable.

Contributor Bios Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan(he/him) is a keen writer of Izzi, Abakaliki ancestry. A Final Year Medical Laboratory Science Student whose works have been nominated for both Forward Prize and Best of e Net Award. He was the winner 2021, WAN-Cookout Poetry Prize. He is found of his poorly lit room fromwhere he tweets @wordpottersull1 and he believes that asking for a pact of light grows him into a greenhouse. He has works published or forthcoming at IS&T, e Shore, B’K Mag, Tilted House, Journal Nine, Sub-Saharan Mag, Analogies & Allegories.

Wondrous Real Mag, Rulerless, e Deadlands, Fourth River, Sandy River Review, Rabid Oak and elsewhere.

Darnell “DeeSoul” Carson (He/ ey) is a Black queer poet, performer, and educator from San Diego, CA, and Editorial Assistant at e Adroit Journal. A 2020 TWH Writing Workshop Fellow and 2021 Writer in the Public Schools Fellow in the NYU M.F.A program, his work has been featured on Button Poetry, in e Adroit Journal, and elsewhere.

Born and raised in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, Brittany Marshall is a queer Black woman poet and educator. She was the 2020-2021 Baton Rouge Poet Laureate. She teaches 10th grade English and African American Literature. She has an M.Ed in Curriculum and Instruction and teaching is her activism and purpose. She writes poems that convey narratives about love, death, Blackness, and all their intricacies. When she's not writing poems, she's napping, cuddling her kitten, and taking pictures of lowers.

Ayanna Albertson is a writer and spoken word poet from North Carolina. Ayanna is very passionate about “a(rt)dvocacy”, including women’s rights, and the advancement and liberation of the black community. She’s been crowned the Bull City Grand Slam Champion for three consecutive years, and is currently ranked the #1 woman poet in the world as of April 2021. Her motto for her life’s work is "I don't wish to be famous, I just want to be heard".

LeChell " e Shootah" R. H. is a writer, performer and visual artist from Brooklyn, NY, now residing in Houston,TX. She is a 2-time Women of the World Poetry Slam Finalist, ranking 3rd and the 2021 competition and finalist of the inaugural Stonewall International Poetry Slam. She is the author of two poetry collections Jaywalking & 'Cause erapy Ain't for Black Folks and the chapbook Flat Feet, Diabetes and A Pretty Smile. She has been published in Defunkt Magazine and her work can be found on Write About Now and Button Poetry.

Ryan Boyland is a writer and wanderer currently based out of Omaha, Nebraska, where his love for both science and poetry motivates him to combine the two at every opportunity, whether it be in the lab or at an open mic. His work addresses issues of identity, love, and death. And stars.

Because they’re cool. His goal through his performance is to touch minds and hearts around the world and considers it a victory every time he can do so. His work has been featured on Button Poetry, and can be found on SoundCloud, Facebook, and YouTube. When he is not writing, Ryan enjoys listening to music, stargazing, and being Black, mixed in with the occasional intense discussion regarding the validity of the Star Wars prequels.

Madina Jah is a Muslim, black, female, DACA immigrant visual artist and writer informing about Muslim identity through art on interpersonal and social issues.

Fresh Linen has traveled and performed in di ferent parts of the world, but claims New Jersey as home. Currently serving in the United States Air Force in Germany where he performs with his artist collective, Return 2 Cindr. Fresh Linen started writing poetry in 2009 and started performing in 2016 with aspirations to have his voice and art echoed around the globe.

Alexandria a Great holds a Masters in Cultural Studies and a Bachelors in African American Studies. 2018 National Civil Rights Museum Drop the Mic Slam Runner Up and 2017 Women of the World Poetry Finalist. Author of three books including Black Souls Dance on Beat (2015) and Everything My Daddy Taught Me (2019). Published in various journals and spoken at over 30 colleges and universities. Lives by the motto: Whatever you do let it be bold!

Michael Fraser is published in various national and international journals and anthologies. He is published in Best Canadian Poetry in English 2013 and 2018. He has won numerous awards, including Freefall Magazine’s 2014 and 2015 poetry contests, the 2016 CBCPoetry Prize, and the 2018 Gwendolyn Macewen Poetry Competition. His third poetry book, e Day Breakers, is forthcoming from Biblioasis in spring 2022.

Anthony McPherson’s work appears on Button Poetry, Hu fington Post, Upworthy and elsewhere. He is a Rustbelt Poetry Slam Champion, a three-time Brooklyn Poetry Slam Champion, and a runner-up at the Individual World Poetry Slam. He is currently represented by e College Agency.