the wild(ish) side

Can you hear it?

By Rachel Whitesell

Biography:

I am a cartoon lover, coffee enthusiast, and mother to my “fluffy” cat, Baby Kitty. I am an English major at the University of North Florida, working towards my bachelor’s degree. I am also a writing tutor at the University of North Florida’s Writing Center. So, my days are usually spent looking at my writing or someone else’s. My poem “Guanyin” was awarded runner-up in poetry for the Amy Wainwright Award for Creative Writing in 2021.

Winter Mornings Like These

winter mornings like these
in the Bushwick duplex

I have a hard time distinguishing
the howl of the raw wind
that rattles the apartment door
and coos underneath the slats

from my husband’s humming
low and meticulous
as he scrambles our eggs
and empties the dishwasher

the music of these
moaning and sacred spirits

stirs me from sleep
so that I may start my days
with the simple, vital art
of listening mindfully

as I descend the stairs
to meet the early bustling of the world
and to gently unravel
in the warm voice of my beloved

By Sarah Esmi

 

To a butterfly in my DM

there are many reasons
our love thrives in the dark.
there’s nowhere safe to tame the
smoke on a lover’s skin without a hand
forgetting music in your throat.
I mean, to say the word love,
look over your shoulder for salvation
or throw a whisper in water & bend towards
its ripple to lodge your touch in a bone.
there are only a few things the world knows
about love, but know enough to call
a boy living in another boy’s heart a taboo,
something unethical like the dark side of God’s art.
so, when you said you love me & your words
slips off your mouth like a prayer
seeking room to breathe bubbles,
I do not want to bite dust or imagine
the fate of a tale lying still in the dark,
because our love is a bird restricted from daylight
like a sin hidden from sun rays to be sane.
I’m sorry, I do not want to die.
I do not want to hold your hand
& be mobbed to a memory in pool of blood.
even with fetters you can never stop the world
from screwing her rage to our veins
because she does not know how to embrace
the beauty of a butterfly unhidden in a hue.

By Olabisi Akinwale

Iola

 For Michelle Duster, great-granddaughter of Ida B. Wells-Barnett

Pages of the Living Way
Newspaper, which reached readers
Every week, was how the public
Saw eloquent words and met

Her, Iola

Told many of her harrowing tale
Of injustice turned resistance:
Boarded a steam train for work, Nashville bound,
First class seat taken, comfy ride for

Her, Iola

The White conductor disapproved,
Did his damnest to remove
Consign to a smoky, crowded
“Coloured only” car, disregard for

Her, Iola

Promptly answered him with her teeth,
Fastened onto pale hand, bitten deep,
White passengers cheered as she was dragged out—
This episode wasn’t over for

Her, Iola

Contested the egregious matter in court
Chesapeake & Ohio Railroad, her opponents
The judge awarded $500 in damages
Soon to be lost, company appeal against

Her, Iola

It was the sudden shooting of three
Successful Black grocers, all good friends, because
Southern White businessmen despised competition,
That brought that schoolteacher to her typewriter, motivation for

Her, Iola

Shone truth’s light on ghastly wrongs
Between the Evening Star & Free Speech
Until hatred’s fire was set to her printing press
Added stress on the journalistic princess, Memphis off-limits to

Her, Iola

New York City, Northern refuge
Safe enough to continue the deluge:
Reports on Southern horrors acquired
From talks with victims’ relations, fleshed out by

Her, Iola

The record of the South continued to go red
From any hick town producing Nubian dead
From shotgun shells, bullets, fire and rope
Enclosed around the necks of humanity, counted by

Her, Iola

That never fails to chill the soul
Commonly used method of control
When Blacks came up, supremacy cut them down—
Allegations of rape of White women found false by

Her, Iola

Chicago, England, Wales, Scotland—wherever she did a speech
On the crime of lynching—Preach, lady, preach—
America isn’t the land of the free
If you’re not free to be Black, the gist from

Her, Iola

“Separate but equal”—official falsehood
Separate and substandard facilities—never good
Signs at public places turned away dark faces—
The basis for a fight for equality, which began with

Her, Iola.

By Dee Allen

Saudade

In my mama’s language,
saudade means a yearning

for a love that has vanished
or never existed.

A root knotted in honey,
whirling inside our soul,

circling our bones
and starving us to death.

In my mama’s language
Latinity is an unwitting river,

a wind coated with torn wounds
sand ashes of wilted homeland.

Each grain is a red vein
rippling and mourning like riptide,

vowels shaped like breaths and prayers.
Mama melts our faces in light,

scalding tiny pieces of myself
as I unearth lost stories of an entire continent.

Mama squeezes our hands together,
hardened calluses waded and wet

trembling to still move
bones soft and oily flesh

raw heart and
courage dripping blood

scared all that is left are forever stained
open veins of an unreachable land

Deeper than any tree root
worn smooth by ancient rivers.

By Luiza Louback

Night Reddened by Maple Leaves

Tonight the moon shines
in bittersweet luminescence
like a dying lamp. The light clambers
through the thin stretch of road
against the ripples of houses, diffusing
into the windows that are all shut tight.
The street grows a shadow,
one that becomes more vivid, when day
becomes night. An ajuma
sees the street lights hiss, suddenly
shutting out – gone. The woman
follows, turning her lamp off.
And a businessman, who halts his Kia
in front of his house, sees bland dust
winnowing through the street: empty
yet filled with everything it’s made up of.
He recalls a year ago, coming back to a home
that’d make one warm – the smell
of pajeon, softly golden, now
wistful, burnt. He sights a sandpiper
standing on an Aspen branch, probing
at the vastness of Yeonhui-dong
now swallowed by the darkness
almost muted, never slicing
through the silence. Soon, the bird’s wings
begin to flutter, taking off into nothing,
the man now alone. His eyes
trail along the slightly peeled hanji pasted
on the door of his hanok, remembering
the wailing noises of his children
running down Jeungga-ro reddened
by fallen maple leaves.

By Michelle Park

Michelle Park is a 15 year old, high school freshman currently living in the Philippines. Many of her poems are about nature and her memories from her childhood. She loves to eat food, and during her free time, she likes to play soccer, dance, and listen to music.

SALVATION ARMY

At the Diggy Bins,
nickname ours, we sought survivors    
amidst all manner

of matter    heaps of worn
stuffed animals     knick-knacks     toys severed
from larger sets       tangled cords        straggling
small kitchen appliances     dumped     directly     from donation   boxes    
into wooden bins      dilapidated     stretched     in     long rows       
broken glass         compounding      chaos       the rough       treatment      of it all

my mom’s teeth
were a map; her sixth sense
of    significance         winding paths    to floating islands of
value     chameleon-ed     in the accumulation—

figurines     pottery     jewelry       worth up to sixty times           what you’d pay      easy
if you could recognize     the faded artist signatures

the gentle markings of validity
how real gems hit different
on your teeth
than cubic zirconia.

There is nothing more useful than knowing
what to love.

This is how I learned—
my mom digging for a diamond
in the rough, furtively tapping
a tarnished jewel

to her canine, listening
for its final word.

By Ginger Harris

Biography:

Ginger Harris is an emerging writer who lives in Denver. She has a bachelor’s degree in English Literature from the University of Wisconsin, Madison, where she also studied creative writing. You can find more of her poetry on Instagram @ayla.poetry