Taken from the Eye By Cindy Xin

Taken from the Eye

Part of the passion: wading waist-deep into the sky,
now liquid and sullen over your wrists. Your dress
looks different now, louder, yet subdued. Stop it—

you’re holding on too tight to something you’re
not willing to keep. Ice mends, unmends, himself
upon your back. You ask him for help, to be

consumed or to be released, but again, this is part
of the passion— you may only float as high as
permitted. Let the leeches do what they will— the

body, when lank, is the most faithful. Let the sky
undulate over and into you, leaving you nonetheless
nameless. In the back, your mother contemplates

the folds of an onion. Your mother is contemplating
a prayer. How purple is so difficult to remember.
How the years should unpeel, how she should’ve

found you by now. You give yourself nothing because
you are looking for everything: the dull the petals hide,
the death behind the mouth. This isn’t it, and you know

it—but the stars. You’d die to see them. There are
better things— but the stars. You’d re-read this
whole nightmare. Tear yourself apart for them.

Hope for a salve of their silence.

By Cindy Xin


Cindy Xin is a junior in Albany High School in California who enjoys writing poetry, listening to music, and staring at the sky. Her work is forthcoming in Earth Island Journal, Half Mystic, After The Pause, and Glass.

We Are Back

Rising Phoenix Review

Letter From the Editor

I know these are difficult times the likes of which many of us have never experienced. I feel the weight of this suffering. The sickness, shattered plans, upended dreams. If I’m honest, I am fucking scared.  As we self quarantined, I felt so isolated. I knew I wanted to help remedy that feeling for as many people as I could.

What I know is we need as many things that add light to the world as possible. As many things as we can make to help bring comfort, affirm our shared humanity, and amplify the voices of those who need to be heard. Connecting with all of you through this publication was always a light in the dark for me. More importantly, this was a space we built together, a place where we could connect people across the world. What I know is we can be brave together.

With these things in mind, Rising Phoenix Review is officially back. I have assembled a new issue full of poets who give me courage. I think they will uplift you too. Our  first new issue will debut on April 1st, 2020. I will publish a new feature poet each night at 9pm Eastern Daylight time on RPR.

My plan is for this to be the start of Rising Phoenix Review being a monthly magazine again. Additionally, I also plan to recruit new section editors (including a photography and art editor), and poetry readers. I hope you will stay tuned for updates about those things, as well as a few other surprise projects I am planning.

Until then, I hope these words find you safe and healthy.

Peace be with you always,

-Christian Sammartino

lethargy By Amanda Huang


nowadays, edith is static
a shell in the absence

of craving. she used
to adore each sweet

fixation and learned
to unravel her thirst

like spools of thread but now confesses
that orchard pears bring the taste

of brine, their veins an estuary
of tangled webs pulsing, awaiting

expulsion from the tumid womb. edith
squeezes each naked ugly spine and

spits out each sightless eye like
fish flung back to sea, envies

their perfect breathlessness.
in her palm their bodies wither,

bare husks of dreams now
thought inglorious

By Amanda Huang


Amanda Huang is a junior at Millburn High School, where she is a senior editor of her school’s literary magazine. Her work has been nationally recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and JustPoetry, and has been published in TeenInk and in the Word magazine.



and the cloud opens hurriedly for
a prophecy of smoke. It opens like daybreak
and it’s so funny how bodies collate fire easily.
Everyone carried race all over their bodies,
black. black. black.
No one remained the same
no one knew how explosion borrow bodies to make embers
no one knew how fire opens a body
layer by layer until DNA becomes an
identification messiah.
Imagine seeing a boy dying outside a car
where you’re locked inside
while fire approaches you with the anger of light,
imagine a man in a praying position
on the steering before metals pleats his faith.
Bodies switch music and dirge is a solo
that sings a boy into silence. Water is a tenor of things too weak
to stay in a body full of darkness. A motor’s wiper
mimes death, and its full light dies into seconds.
Noises drown this city of brown bodies.
do not call this road a mortuary
do not say this body doesn’t resemble your father,
do not seep this broken news into your veins
like the desperate tweaking of injections into a body
veined with deaths,
do not switch on the T.V
for they won’t still be sure
the death toll till the cloud closes like memories.

By Mesioye Johnson


Mesioye Johnson is a bird of many colors who writes to heal his darkness and the world around his waist. His works are featured or forthcoming in African Writer, Eunoia review, Sub-Saharan magazine and somewhere else. He is @mesioyejohnson on Twitter



the smoke from the bodies of burning boys is accusative
i fear for the day i will burn because persecution foreruns fire
it continues to consume boys committing selves solely to boys
brave ones with eyes invaded by love taste smoke
i go to my lover’s arms set in the cover of darkness
they will come for me while dressed in light to name me rebel
any boy tongue-kissing another triggers the functionality of bombs
the dark gives up our position so i fucking run into corners unknown
i flee this madness because I carry a wild heart learning different ways to love
in this city & in all its houses, hate is mayor around these parts
scripture quoting warriors tread rudely on my name
fuck, i love my body enough to divorce reason & conformity
everywhere, a boy misses his lover & fear sharpens the blade he hugs as ally
i lose my soul when i am not loving or trying to decipher the language of hate
the words i locate weakens me when placed against mob mentality
i was not taught to hold my body like a gun or twist shape to become knife
like the one i pulled out from a boy’s back the night freedom caught fire
Jesus is the heaven preachers market alongside salvation
they sell ascension for obese bank accounts while the carpenter’s son tends to barren pockets
i walk with Christ & he cries, weeping ike that chapter drawn from Lazarus’ tomb
i exchange my lover for life & they crown him with burning
i pour my heart into Christ’s own to emphasize that kindness is sexy
i observe a minute’s silence for my lover while hate speech rains down
contained in the belly of sleepless nights, i listen for suicide’s call
Christ returns to hold & sing my grief to sleep
he waters my lips, eyelids & skin with kisses, tongue swirls in my favour

By Michael Akuchie


Michael Akuchie is a Nigerian young adult writer. His work is on Barren Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, Neologism Poetry Journal, Mojave Heart and elsewhere. He is @Michael_Akuchie on Twitter.

tenebrosity By Amanda Huang


i have never gotten over my fear
of the darkness. instead i dream
that i have woken up
alone in the night forest, one eye
fluttered open in search of
the horizon and the other
turned downwards to the earth
it is quiet, still              besides for
the shards of moonlight quivering
through the trees, and at home

they fear the nighttime too, when
the creatures cry in the woods
and mothers draw their curtains, hold
their sleeping babies close
to their chests to let their breaths
warm the dewy eyelashes of
their children and count
their                 heartbeats

leave the lights on. i am afraid
of the forest, the dark, of what cries
in the woods among the shadows
of my own breath

By Amanda Huang


Amanda Huang is a junior at Millburn High School, where she is a senior editor of her school’s literary magazine. Her work has been nationally recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and JustPoetry, and has been published in TeenInk and in the Word magazine.


Why do I still answer when you call? By Nia KB

Why do I still answer when you call?

While deleting snapchat I came across a glimpse
of us months ago hiking
in Arlington; SZA’s CTRL a silhouette
for sweltering heat that fried our faces
You had those goofy pink shades on and your bony
body lie against my wrinkled white tee
I was looking down at your face
watching you effortlessly project pretty
wondering what I did to deserve such
a Goddess. I zoomed closer to highlight
myself let the lie “I’m cute as hell”
roll like water off my tongue. I found myself
saving this video, even almost sending it
to you, but instead let it live in my phone for another
forever I can’t yet erase that color of time
from my mind can’t yet fathom him being
the warm body behind you to push against
can’t tell myself enough you fucked up, she’s gone
until The Weekend doesn’t make me
crack a dorky smile but then you call
for a kind of comfort I never provided
like a virus, I attack the opportunity
to let love in. You hear in my voice that I’m drinking
then the phone screen’s darkness fills
even when you hang up I have pictures
videos that do the best they can
to stray away my empty

By Nia KB


Nia KB (they/them) is a Black queer nonbinary poet, editor, and educator. They are the recipient of fellowships and residencies from Lambda Literary, The Speakeasy Project, and UTSA’s African American Literatures and Cultures Institute. Their poetry appears or is forthcoming in Eleven40Seven, Z Publishing, Pamplemousse, Brown State of Mind, Lighthouse Literary, and elsewhere. When they’re not blessing stages or writing pages, they serve as Associate Poetry Editor for Fields Magazine, Production Assistant for the web series Gentrified, Curator/Host of the reading series Austin Interfaces, and Teaching Artist for Austin Library Foundation’s Badgerdog Creative Writing Program. If you got this far, they think you should follow them on twitter and instagram at nia_kb.