By Malcolm Tariq
In church
we said Satan, get thee behind
and I always laughed. A demon child
with a twisted mouth,
we said Satan, get thee behind
and I always laughed. A demon child
with a twisted mouth,
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- By Sarah CarsonThe last man here wanted
what could not be taken: My girl, he'd say,
my baby. The narrow of his eyes… - By Anastasia Taylor-Lindv.
Isn’t it dangerous to be a woman? Surrounded by men, questions
about risk-taking, parenting (I’m childless… - By Jay Jerbii know it like i know my name.
i know it like i know that i cried when reading Mary Oliver for the first… - By Maggie Queeneylaurel tree, limbs bent and twined into crown heifer bank of marsh reeds,
handful lashed into pipes, … - By heidi andrea restrepo rhodesI: My beloved is called an inconceivable beast, a spectacle diagnosed with teratoid genitalia, a chaos…
- By Darrel Alejandro HolnesThis love dares not speak its name
in some states
until your eyes say it
on a beach in Ft. Lauderdale… - By Chris WatkinsI was riding toward Damascus
to yell at some Christians and maybe
stone a few uninhibited women
when… - By Natasha SajéDo for your neck what you do for your face.
Face your neck whatever the case. Pace yourself
for 35-55,… - By Remica Bingham-RisherBut for the grace of God
one might begin and
this must be the life of a woman. I will barely touch the… - By SapphoTranslated By Dan Beachy-QuickAs the sweet-apple reddens on the high branch,
high on the highest branch, that the apple-pickers forgot… - By Cornelius EadySome folks will tell you the blues is a woman,
Some type of supernatural creature.
My mother would tell… - By Corey Van Landinghamwas, according to Virgil, always a fickle, unstable thing. Woman. Wyf. Merger of wife and man. To indicate: not-girl. Not-yet-claimed, not-yet weeping. And aren’t they often weeping? The mother, tearing her hair out, running toward the battle lines, filling heaven...
- By Camonghne FelixWhat else could I say except I agree with you really am bulldozed
with grief
my strength a whistle in… - By Maya MarshallThe myth is Grandaddy’s mother
birthed twelve children
by twelve discrete men. I asked what she did for… - By Sylvia ChanI want to begin this poem with two stories:
1. In 1984, my mother was pulled over for speeding in a rural, still unnamed village in Taishan. The cop was a forty-year-old man who let her go because of her age... - By Brandon YoungMy father said to me once your only choices are the factories. Oil stains or
the selfsame bruises. No longings for the night. Looking back I think of
things I could have done differently ... Sure, it could have all been different,
but what’s the use now, when all... - By Brandon YoungOh, don’t worry, we will let our hair down tonight—
but first we must remember on this stage, the queen
we lost, who they killed not too far from here
just... - By Rickey LaurentiisWhy doubt I’d grow breasts a ‘Natural’ way?
Am I not ‘Real’ Flesh? Am I not enworthied sway
of that Biology? Not ‘Cis,’ you think me ‘alien’?
Loose? Do I so estrange? Wouldn’t I be, monstrous, the ‘Gorgon’
Lady with my two ‘new,’ added,... - By Kristín Svava TómasdóttirTranslated By K.B. Thorssnow in most tracks
stories obscured
from pagebound memory
these lines only attempt
to save a few
remarkable women
from the driftsTranslated from the Icelandic