NOVEMBER 2020 ISSUE
By Vanessa Holyoak
In the dense, moist forest that had become my home, I was overcome by a sudden and violent sneeze — restored to my senses on the other side of the sneeze, I was struck by a novelty in the environment: trickles of light made their way between the foliage, graced the forest floor. So dim the rays were hard to qualify as light — they were closer to premonitions — but they did contrast with the otherwise pervasive darkness in which I had until now lingered willingly.
By Milen Aklilu
They say the skyline is the limit.
But for who?
We the black people have dreams too.
But how could we ever live our dreams when the police are killing us?
Bob Marley turned his hell into a melody that touched everyone's soul and kept him alive.
What does your child love to do?
What did Tamir Rice love to do?
By Jacki Apple
Thirty years ago in 1962, James Baldwin wrote in the New York Times, “Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced. It is certain, in any case, that ignorance, allied with power, is the most ferocious enemy justice can have.” A fine parallel to our own historical sentiments declaring not only the prerogative, but the imperative to bear arms against tyranny and injustice. But ideals and the events they precipitate are often subsumed by the enterprise.
By William Doreski
We never dance anymore.
No patterns emerge between
or among us. Terrible heat
has annealed every rhythm,
spiked every errant muscle.
The climate no longer loves us,
but feints with hurricane and drought.
You and I no longer stand out
from the general slop and grimace.
By Sabra Marie
Standing over the cast iron stove, Sally stirs methodically, intently, as she relishes the afternoon ahead; sacred time to spend with her family after a long week’s work. Her love language was always a home-cooked meal. She remembered her mama’s cooking and how loved she felt standing by her side, bare feet one with the dusty floor, watching Mama set the table for supper. A mama herself now, it was Sally’s turn to pay that love forward.
By Marjorie Sadin
Blind Justice
There is no justice for the burning tree.
There is no justice for Breonna Taylor
Does blind justice see color?
There is no justice for Breonna Taylor
as long as her life is taken
lightly.
By Russell Willis
This storm where lives matter and history is
relegated to the past
not substituted for the Truth
By Jimmy Pappas
We raped
all of Saigon's
best women.
Sure they were prostitutes
when we met them,
but we prolonged the agony.
Tied the straps a little tighter,
twisted the arms a little harder,
pressed the knife deeper to the throat.
By Catherine Harnett
We’ve been considerate for months, distant,
masked, six feet apart, our hands clean; and wait
to leave home, praying for the insistent
virus to surrender. Seized lungs deflate,
take breath away; we beg for air: I can’t
breathe, I can’t breathe, can’t bear this awful weight,
can’t breathe. No respirator can recant
death’s claim, no regimen can undo fate.
