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Poetry

Faith and identity have been fluid experiences in my life. I am intersectional; a woman of color, born into Islam, raised in the Bible Belt, taught to view sexuality as static and holy. I grew up feeling I had failed. Was failing. I existed in a constant state of failure, sometimes for reasons I could not pinpoint. So I began writing outside my personal experiences to discover the outer limits of myself, those which existed beyond the packaged identity I’d been sold through parenting. To this end, fiction has long

This poem arose from racial violence incited by Donald Trump during his presidential campaign. The fervor with which individuals responded to his stoking the fires of white supremacy reminded me of a period in my childhood when the KKK was a neighborhood player. My family was not exempt from their profiling and terror tactics.  In Case of Fire (for Donald Trump) White sheets march off the laundry line at sunset Your mother across the alley of our yards twists shut her blinds. Her thin fingers do not shake like my

by Jessica Boyce It would a simple thing, to take the pain away, to end the battle of my mind, And yet I choose to stay. My mind, so quick to anger, and pain cuts to the bone, yet I force myself onward, For I am not alone. One soul, he is my other half, would be broken and bereft, and children that are precious, would not know why I left. I am proud of my survival. It is my saving glory. The beasts that smeared and stained me, They

I had to lift my roots to make it through the wounded passage cried warning for the heart far too late, I’d seen beyond veins humming electric into the ravine below where I swam as a minnow in the fluid of my own desire never told me this was possible this my truth non-option I thought to climb realized I’d always been climbing an endless mountain downward thinking I rose righteous churning butter from the cream of denial please touch my ear when you whisper with those painted lips  

Consent is given when I say yes, place your hands on me, take hold; I give you permission to know me inside and out; I speak your name with please do stroke me with fingers on your keyboard; When there is distance touch me in every private and public space; Condense me to yours with words and even typos, missed strokes or mixed messages because I am willing to be held. Not I am willing to be hostage to your expectations emotions wishes prods or likes. Not I am willing to be

I love you most when you are drifting under the wings of nightmares my ear against the grain of your closed wooden door I miss you most when you sleep twisted in the fear you will slip the tether lose your one, small soul. Rest, child. I will hold your string you are the gift I prayed for when I fed blood to Mother Earth.   All of my children struggle with nightmares, but especially one. I find myself waiting at his door listening with my heart as he whimpers.

Faith on the Wind Animosity cannot grow here among the shaded groves and dandelions roaring yellow faith. Let sunlight burst from fertile earth between the broken vines; animosity cannot grow here when twilight comes and blossoms close from bright heads to brimming hearts and dandelions roaring yellow faith. Children mourn the passing scene of selfless beauty and of love – animosity cannot grow here; their gentle hearts echo the light from a thousand little suns: dandelions roaring yellow faith. In old age, when the world has worn away the sight

she’s hard on him but she’s done nine years with four walls that she never wants him to know one morning after she lit into him they both skipped class when she picked him up later he said Mama let’s skip to the car like we used to An arsonist by trade, John Reinhart lives on a farmlette in Colorado with his wife and children. He is a Frequent Contributor at the Songs of Eretz, member of the Science Fiction Poetry Association, and was awarded the 2016 Horror Writers Association

Trigger warning: domestic violence, gun violence Anniversary Hail to the guardians of sleep, for one year ago last night, they stood at the foot of my bed, or at the entrance to the baby’s room, in shifts, maybe even drugged him out cold on the couch so I might still have my head when I woke. Hail to the living room drywall, which absorbed fists meant for me the next morning, didn’t care if he tore it to shreds, and he did. Hail to my broken laptop, my broken phone, my

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