The Santa Ana
By Paul TranDesert born. Wild
As corn. Dry
Bitch. Itchy clit.
Meteorologists
Measure me
With mercury;
Police with murder rates.
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We are not reconciled to the oppressors who whet their howl on our grief.
By Danielle BadraWe are not born to be barons of wealth. We
are soft spoken wordsmiths, not soldiers. We are
not broken by hardship or hate. We are not
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Spaghetti Western
By John JamesIn Georgetown, IN, the steel projector reels.
The desert stretches blankly before us, a red
plain constellated with rows of dry mesquite.
Still Life with Bullets
By Paulette BeeteOrlando Jones, a black actor, douses himself
in a bucket of bullets. I flinch. Bullet against
brown skin even without the bruised and
busted aftermath is no easy thing to bear.
Dear INTELLIGENCE JOURNAL,
By Solmaz SharifLovely dinner party. Darling CASUALTIES and lean
sirloin DAMAGE of the COLLATERAL sort.
Extended my LETTER OF OFFER AND ACCEPTANCE
to the DESIRED INTERNAL AUDIENCE, reaching
Death Valley, California
By Jeneva Stoneclose to the Nevada border salt
flats dry beds octagonal or hexed
one constant the wind another
dryness the two wicked all away
POLITICS OF AN ELEGY
By Hieu Minh NguyenIf things happen
the way they are supposed to
my mother will die before me.
In This Place (An American Lyric)
By Amanda GormanThere’s a poem in this place—
in the footfalls in the halls
in the quiet beat of the seats.
It is here, at the curtain of day,
Harriet Tubman is a Lesbian
By Saida Agostinijabari says fuck that, harriet wasn’t trying turn the underground into henrietta’s. but shit, I want a hero, a full on black queer woman
etheree for black women
By JP Howardblack women we be trying to hold worlds
on our backs, in our hearts without fail
some days we fail at perfection