“And They Look” by Tanya Olson
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And They Look
alike too Like my mother and I
look alike Every time we see
Junior on HeeHaw she notes
He could be family Big moon
face Crinkle eye smile Family
is like a string to my mother
Every member a knot Connected
but apart In heaven you will
recognize every knot on our string
and they will already know youOne day my mother declares
she wants to be the woman
who sings backup and plays
tambourine for Culture Club
We have just gotten MTV
and still watch it like it is a show
Turn it on at the top of the hour
and sit there for 30 minutes
as the videos click by
Helen Terry I discover decades
later when we have the internet
and can wonder about a fact
and then find it My mother
long dead never searched the internet
My mother never sent an email
Helen Terry though is still aliveHelen Terry is the big voice
in all the great Culture Club songs
Karma Chameleon
I’ll Tumble For You
I Know You Miss Me Blind
Hers is the voice that echoes
whatever Boy George sings first
I’m a man (a man)
without conviction
Hers is the voice that holds up hisProgress is seldom a true story
Step up Slide back But my friend
Clark always likes to point out
You and I could spend whole lunchtimes
discussing whether Boy George
might possibly be gay We share
pronouns at the start of meetings now
but honestly I do not want to tell you
my pronouns Sirred in line
Brothered by security Hey guyed
at the store These moments
of slippage are pure butch
triumph Between the guess
the confusion the correction
I feel most seenI know how to watch MTV now
Know how to look up facts Have yet
to spend meaningful time with
my mother since she died Spotted
her in the highest row of a stadium
once She stood when I stood Sat
when I sat They call my name
and she pounds her hands together
like she is playing a tambourine
She shows up in my dreams but
we speak of nothing real I know not
of an afterlife or if we are gifted
some chance to live again In this
as in so many things I am a man
(a man) who does not knowTanya Olson lives in Silver Spring, Maryland. Her first book, Boyishly, was published by YesYes Books in 2013 and received an American Book Award. Her second book, Stay, was released from YesYes Books in 2019, and her third, Born Backwards, is newly available from YesYes Books in June 2024.
“gender euphoria as personal hyrule” by nat raum
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gender euphoria as personal hyrule
After The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wildfast travel offers an allure for my limbs especially,
throb as they do after three or four trips
up and down the block. but i imagine the ability
to evaporate, reconstruct myself at point B
in place of being seen in the wild. it’s notfor a lack of craving the fresh air. rather, the look
of this body means i can only be woman when
i walk down the street; i lose the self i have
sculpted in her absence while my breasts still
dome and dart my ironic t-shirt for all to see.in actuality, gender is closer to an old forester
calling me a bright-eyed young man, bestowing
on me the masculine urge to spear a passing monster
until it dissolves into blackblight, finished with a flourish.
gender is an arrangement of pixels on a screendressed in sheikah armor dyed armoranthine,
a haircut i envy not only because mine won’t fall
like that, but also for the boyface it frames. the boy
in me is taciturn, but when i let him go too silent,
i fear i’ll never shake womanhood. i know i’ll neverbe fog, wish as i might to atomize these aching
hips and knees, to be perceived as pure water:
completely neutral. but is it so much to ask
that i might one day shed the skin of woman, be held
and holy in the wake of bright-eyed resurrection?nat raum is a queer disabled artist and writer based on unceded Piscataway and Susquehannock land in Baltimore. They’re the editor-in-chief of fifth wheel press and the author of you stupid slut (Dream Boy Book Club, 2022), the abyss is staring back (Querencia Press, 2023), random access memory (Bullshit Lit, 2023), and several others.
Previously appeared in Penumbra Online. Reprinted with permission by the author.“For Gaza, For Palestine” by Danielle Badra
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For Gaza, For Palestine
“If we must die, you must live and prevent the death of the rest of us. If we must be displaced, fleeing death, then you must prevent the displacement of all of us.” – Bisan Owda
You are I am watching a genocide and it isn’t the first time
watching what my local news calls a conflict
it is not a conflict
and what exists between the river and the sea is apartheid
we are I am on this side of the screen, the safe side,
living in my home with my wife and my daughter
it this life feels false, false avocado puree painted on my baby’s
joyful face
and reality is ground bird feed for an orphaned boy trying to feed
his siblings
for the world is witnessing the horrors of hatred manifest
humanity is hungry, is scarred, is demolished, is scared, is displaced, is
dying, is dead
and to a million voices screaming into the night and through the
day for their lives
existence the right to exist is fickle in a time and a place that is
relentless
you should keep your eyes open because you can and you can
not forget the blood painted faces of fathers carrying their
cloaked children
get tired only when the keys are returned to the people and their
ghosts are full
of it of the food and the freedom they were deprived in life, only
then will we rest
*The language in the left column is also from Bisan Owda.Danielle Badra is the Fairfax County Poet Laureate (2022-2024). Her poems have appeared in Mizna, Cincinnati Review,Duende, The Greensboro Review, Split This Rock, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, and elsewhere. Dialogue with the Dead (Finishing Line Press, 2015) is her first chapbook, a collection of contrapuntal poems in dialogue with her deceased sister. Her book, Like We Still Speak, was selected by Fady Joudah and Hayan Charara as the winner of the 2021 Etel Adnan Poetry Prize and published by the University of Arkansas Press.
“Sweet Lorraine” by Malik Thompson
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Sweet Lorraine
“My Lord calls me. He calls me by the thunder. I ain’t got long to stay here.”
— Lorraine HansberryYour radiant smile can thaw hearts
As swiftly as it freezes
Such loneliness hidden Behind your eyes Ocean depths
a loneliness
So deep Sweet hymns flicker
In the mouths of ghosts & Jimmy
Won’t be here this evening won’t be here
To hold the thunder
At bay Your lion man— his storm clouds swollen clenched vow of August rain
Lorraine it doesn’t explode
it doesn’t explode
it doesn’t explodeMalik Thompson is a Black queer man from Washington, DC. His work is featured, or forthcoming, in The Cincinnati Review, Denver Quarterly Review, Sundog Lit, Diode, MQR Mixtape, Oroboro, Poet Lore, and other places. He has received support from Lambda Literary, Obsidian Foundation, Brooklyn Poets, Cave Canem, and other organizations.
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Malik Thompson is a resident of Mt Pleasant.
Previously appeared in Oroboro Vol. 8. Reprinted with the permission of Oroboro/Death Rattle.“Dad Says” by Roberta Beary
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Dad Says
It’s a phase that some boys go through but most don’t. Most don’t wear their sister’s lipstick and keep it a secret. A secret my brother knows is that I like kissing my best friend Esme who dresses in boy clothes. My best friend Esme who dresses in boy clothes is what Dad calls a phase some girls go through but most don’t.
upside down
day
moon risingRoberta Beary identifies as genderfluid and writes to connect with the silenced. Their debut poetry collection, The Unworn Necklace (Snapshot Press, 2007), was selected as a Poetry Society of America finalist. They were awarded the Bridport Prize for Poetry in 2022 and were named as a Rattle contest finalist in 2023.
Roberta Beary is a resident of Petworth.
Previously appeared in MacQueen's Quinterly, Issue 20. Reprinted with author's permission.“Ode on Motherhood” by Danielle Evennou
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Ode on Motherhood
After Barbara Hamby’s “Ode on Dictionaries”A is for attempting your best
Bleached-out version of yourself
Calculating how long you can go without diapers, formula, sleep
Deprivation triggers depression, a dependable friend
Each time your child does something new and cute
Feel renewed, fake free-range parenting to form a connection with another human adult while your child plays in filth
Gestational diabetes test failed like the bar exam
High blood pressure tracked with an at-home monitor
Ice cream straight from the carton once the kid is asleep, mint chocolate chip
Just as soon as everyone is healthy again
Killer heartburn, pink eye, coxsackievirus
Lullaby sung with whatever note your lungs can muster
Mountain of laundry so high Spanx thongs are your only clean underwear
Nix nail appointments and nutritious meals
Opt for Oreos
Pee is something you mop up with the bottom of your sock
Queer identity concealed in WhatsApp parent groups, you cannot
Remember the last time you read
Something for pleasure
Tough like the patch of skin on the outside of your left ankle
Underwater but still breathing
Vacation is a
Waiting room at the dentist to
X-ray your teeth, loosened by hormones
You, just you, a rare thing to contemplate
Zestless and zagging toward the amazing zoneDanielle Evennou (she/her/hers) is a writer who grew up in suburban New Jersey. For over a decade, she has kept herself busy by hosting poetry readings, workshops, and open mics in Washington, DC. In 2016, she founded Slipform, a writing workshop that explores gender, sexuality, and formal poetic structures. Her poetry and memoir appear in apt, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Dryland, and Split Lip Magazine. Her chapbook, Difficult Trick, was published by dancing girl press in 2017. With the help of therapy, she is learning how to calm the f*** down.
Danielle Evennou is a resident of Langdon.
“Dear Roe v. Wade” by Natasha Saje
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Dear Roe v. Wade,
What a mess you’re in, with red states
eroding you like sand under a power
wash of picky laws, turning back time
to Texas, 1969. I feel for women
in Mississippi, listening to a doctor lie
that abortions cause breast cancer,
and that the fetus can feel pain,
women waiting at the only clinic in the state.
Dangerous, this “personhood,” this lie
extending to an embryo the powers
not accorded to the breathing women
who care for and carry it over months.In 1973, I turned 18.
I appreciate your gloss on “do no harm,”
on history: in 1787 women
were in this way less constrained by states
than corpses are today; they can be forced
to give birth. For whom is that the truth?We’ve made the Constitution our true
guide, plus amendments carved in time:
liberty and privacy inherent rights
for every citizen, even those as poor
as Norma McCorvey (Roe), whose statement
on the case reversed, pro to con, for women.Yet privacy’s a cloud with women’s
lives hovering like drops of rain. The truth:
so many tears. Thanks to DNA, the state
knows everywhere we go, and sometimes, when.
If you had feelings, Roe v. Wade, you’d be blue,
but you’re a court case, judicial law,one that even Sarah Palin knows.
Irrelevance is cruel, and thinking women
feel their bodies occupied by menace
while living in our land of lies.
I availed myself of you at 29
and for access, I thank Maryland, my state.Personhood depends on power, and truth
changes like a woman’s chance to thrive
within her gendered state, her malady.Natasha Sajé was born stateless in Munich, Germany, and grew up in New York City and its suburbs. She is the author of five books of poems, including The Future Will Call You Something Else (Tupelo, 2023); a postmodern poetry handbook, Windows and Doors: A Poet Reads Literary Theory (Michigan, 2014); and a Pen finalist memoir, Terroir: Love, Out of Place (Trinity UP, 2020). She is Professor Emerita of English at Westminster University in Salt Lake City, and teaches in the Vermont College of Fine Arts MFA in Writing Program.
Natasha Saje is a resident of Cleveland Park.
Previously appeared in The Future Will Call You Something Else (Tupelo Press, 2023). Reprinted with permission of author.“Gracias Pedro Zamora” by Adrian Gaston Garcia
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Gracias Pedro Zamora
In the summer of ‘94
With stolen cable
You entered our living room
Our bodies spread across carpeted floor
With rug burn staining our elbows and knees
We watched you
Our eyes glued to the screen.Your perfect hairstyle
Like the models in barbershop posters and magazines
Brought butterflies to my tummy.Your bushy eyebrows
Matched my own
So much so that I started to love them.Your contagious smile
Would spread across my own face
And no matter how hard I tried,
I could not hide it away.Your accent gifted me giggles
It shared the same sounds of family members whose tongues
Also spoke SpanishYou looked familiar
So I would make believe
That somehow we were cousins
That in a few years, when I got older,
I would look like you.And without even knowing it,
Seeing you
Helped me see a piece of myself.I remember in that episode
I found out that you were gay and had HIV
And at that time, being seven years old,
I thought it was the same thing.
As you talked out loud, about your life
I could barely understand
But for some reason
I felt that my very own secret was being exposed
So I learned to fear you.But the season went on
And both my crush and secret just kept getting bigger
You eventually won my heart.It was because of you that I first saw two men fall in love
And get married
Celebrating with a wedding
That caused a lump to live in my throat.When the news broke that you were sick
So did the lump
That opened the floodgates
I could not explain to
The outside world
because I didn’t want to be associated with you.I cried when they announced your death
For some reason,
I thought I was supposed to meet you.I am not sure if you ever knew the impact
You would have
How many other young gay boys you go on to inspire
Educate and save.I still get those butterflies in my tummy
Whenever I see your photo.I know now that we are family
You were just ahead of the times.Adrian Gaston Garcia (aka AGG) is a queer Latine storyteller whose mission is to share narratives that build community. He currently lives in Washington, D.C. Adrian fuels his creativity via the performing arts, specifically theater, improv, and spoken word poetry. His work is largely based on his experiences and the intersectionality of his identities. It is a shout out to all the queer brown boys who choose joy as their form of resistance. Adrian is the co-host and producer of Los Bookis Podcast, a podcast for queer Latine bookworms who love queer Latine stories.
Adrian Gaston Garcia is a resident of Columbia Heights.
“East Florida” by Hailey Leithauser
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East Florida
Beneath the hazed moon, this
hazy absence of stars,
how the hearts of the frogs
are breaking!
How they stretch and bloat
the fine elastic
of their chests, and how
their bloated hearts
are so greatly breaking.
This night of camp-tent
swelter belongs to the frogs;
the distant car rattling
slowly home and the nameless,
distant dog know
nothing of barrenness, the lone
washer chuffing through
the open door of the Laundromat
cannot muster an equal
grief, so let us pause then to
give praise for the broad
nostrils and the glottises of frogs.
Let us pause for the great
and cupidinous faith that doles
and gravels in the swell of
their thousand throats, in the gellant
swell of a thousand
bulged and gibbous jowls.
Beneath the street lamps,
the damp porches din with
a stridulous passion;
the car lots and darkened
surf stands echo
with an unbroken desolation
and hope, so let
the vacant causeway crowd
with wheeze and jug
and whoop, the slim alleys
hoarsen and gruff.
Let us give loud and stentorian
praise for the gullets This
of frogs, that their maws
may widen, their dry
lips bubble and their bellies
spread. That they may
throb and chirrup and croak
unendingly, unendingly,
of strange and taintless
beauty, make of
our portion proper melody.Hailey Leithauser is a retired librarian living in Silver Spring, MD. Her books are Swoop (Graywolf Press, 2013), winner of the Poetry Foundation’s Emily Dickinson First Book Award and the Towson Prize for Poetry, and Saint Worm (Able Muse Press, 2019). Her work appears widely in journals and anthologies including Agni, the Gettysburg Review, Poetry, the Yale Review and three appearances in Best American Poetry.
This poem first appeared in the Cincinnati Review. Reprinted by permission of the author.“For Adrienne” by Jennifer Meneray
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For Adrienne
Rich in color, heroine, your life established a feminism most overlook,
Reduced to a theorist, I fear your poetry has long been forgotten,
Go fearless when diving into the wreck exploring hidden truths with fierce curiosity,
Interpretation is subjective, we are missing the point.
In the evening, the city converses on a hunger that grows beneath dampened spirits,
The lioness states with complex confidence– what was, is; what might have been, might be.
The demon lover ponders what beckons a second sight at twilight while the eye reviews hubble photographs: after Sappho.
You spoke lavender to the hearts of menace leaving them archaic,
Pieces of the lesbian continuum have caused disdain,
don’t flinch, you said,
The observer, waking in the dark, asks “aren’t continuums endless?”
The stranger adds, “evolving with time, a lesbian continuum, would continue resistance.”
The song sings, “they live indirectly in every lesbian heart…”
And I, I bring my tigers to speak what ghosts can say.
Sincerely,
Aunt Jennifer
Jennifer Meneray uses writing as a means of self-expression and self-healing. As a lesbian feminist, she explores the themes of equity, inclusion, liberation, and empowerment. Her goal is to encourage others to use art as a form of expression that empowers them to be authentic and unapologetic in their existence.
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“Even The Farmers Pray For Coyotes Now: A Tribute to Folk Artist Willi Carlisle” by Blake Helene Cleve Mihm
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Even The Farmers Pray For Coyotes Now: A Tribute to Folk Artist Willi Carlisle
If America had a bulletin, Undesirables Weekly or something, and you flipped past all the queers, the Black and Brown folks, the unemployed uninsured uninitiated, right to the centerfold,
you’d find a teeny tiny picture of a coyote.
The so-called Arch Predator of our Time, victim of all you can hunt specials past and present, the germ warfare mongrel itch of strychnine, stacks of acme catalogs brimming with new ways to earn bounties against fur left to rot.But last night I lay in bed pondering the future with apocalyptic doom, and a single quivering trill echoed through my window, swelled into a choir, song heard coast to coast, a herald to open our golden eyes wide and rouse a lesson in resilience from the poster child of pestilence:
They may witness our pain but do not let them forget how beautifully we sing.
Oh Old God Coyote,
give me hunger,
for a world big enough to hold
all the wiley ass acting Gods,
to silence the bans brought in, our bodies
called a sin,
laws that make varmints
of us all.Boy
I sure wish I knew what the auguries foretold.
Must I hold onto an ovary, keep my bones
from shattering in case they outlaw
my manhood.
Wherever we end
up, my fellow rabble rousers,
when I die, it will be
reparably and redeemably at your side.Blake Mihm (they/he) is a nonbinary trans man. He lives in suburban Maryland with his two dogs, but his heart thrives in every bog he’s sunk his feet into. Their work has been featured in Lilac Peril, New Words Press, and Backwards Trajectory.
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“Bipolar Lady’s Prayer (to Dymphna)” by Casey Catherine Moore
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Bipolar Lady’s Prayer (to Dymphna)
Our sanity, who art in the clouds,
shrouded be thy name,Insanity comes, it will be run,
from the souls of your feet ‘til your mind’s undone.Give us this day our daily drugs,
And forgive us for misunderstanding our wrongs,
as we forgive those who misunderstand us.And lead us not into obsession,
But deliver us from oblivion.
Amen.
Casey Catherine Moore is a bipolar, bisexual poet, writing coach, & educator. She holds a Ph.D. in CompLit from U of SC, focusing on Latin poetry, invective, & gender studies. Her first poetry collection, Psyche, is a mythology and disability-inspired retelling of the Cupid and Psyche myth (Anxiety Press). She co-produces/co-hosts Homo Stanzas, a queer poetry/comedy series, & Electric Euphoria, a queer and neurodivergent series, & hosts open mics at Busboys & Poets Brookland. Her performance credits include The Kennedy Center, Poetry Out Loud, The Nail Salon, Capturing Fire, & the 2022 Medicare for All Rally in DC.
Casey Catherine Moore is a resident of Cathedral Heights.
“Planting the seed” by Jose Gutierrez
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Planting the seed
Someone plants a seed
With the hope that
Someday it will grow
And give fruit
This is what activist is,
We are the results of dreams
That many years ago
LGTQ+ people planted
Everything can not be done
By one person,
It’s a community work
Even thought when it is
Something small, it has to be done
With love and honesty
Focus the energy
In something positive
That will help develop
Our society
This is in memory of
Those who with so much
Work planted the first seeds
For those who were
Present creating space
And raising their
Hands for us
Thank you,
For the support, power,
Courage, passion and love to keep
Fighting.Jose Gutierrez holds a bachelor’s degree in Psychology from the University Ana G. Mendez in Washington, DC. Jose is a local and national long-time human rights and social justice activist, immigration advocate, Latinx LGBTQ historian, artist, writer and poet. In 2020, he founded the Jose Gutierrez Archives, which preserves the history of the DC LGBTQ Latino community. He is also the founder of DC Latino Pride, and co-founder of the Rainbow History Project.
Jose Gutierrez is a resident of Petworth.
“Valuable weight” by Marlena Chertock
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Valuable weight
after “Stubborn Ounces” by Bonaro W. Overstreet
They’ll tell you
you have to change,
fit in, can’t be
caring for others
your whole life,
need to focus on you.
They’ll say stop caring
about anyone else
but yourself, otherwise
you’ll be trampled on.
They say you can’t
make a living
out of anything
you love —
that’s not
true work.
Take
up
space.
Don’t move
over for them,
don’t budge
on your convictions.
Choose carefully
where you put
the stubborn ounces
of your weight.
Press
your
finger
into the earth —
see the indentation
you leave?
Your stubborn
weight matters, you
weigh as much as you need
to, you beautiful
mesh of stardust,
you add
valuable weight
to this world.Marlena Chertock is a disabled, lesbian, Jewish poet with two books of poetry, Crumb-sized: Poems (Unnamed Press, 2017) and On that one-way trip to Mars (Bottlecap Press, 2016). She uses her skeletal dysplasia as a bridge to scientific poetry. Her poetry and prose has appeared in AWP’s The Writer’s Notebook, Breath & Shadow, The Deaf Poets Society, Lambda Literary Review, Little Patuxent Review, Paper Darts, Paranoid Tree, Washington Independent Review of Books, WMN Zine, Wordgathering, and more.
Marlena Chertock is a resident of Takoma.
“a woman left lonely” by Jane E. Palmer
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a woman left lonely
as the story goes
heroin killed Janis
but that story is
incompletetoo simple
in san francisco,
2000 miles from her
Texas hometown
she found kindred spiritsshe fell in love
with the stage
and women
and men
and southern comfort
and getting highshe carried her
first loves
with her
on tour:
bags of books,
including, always,
her battered copy of
Lady Sings the Blues.this beautiful soul,
who was kicked out
of choir as a child
because she was
too much
too loud
too wild,became a lead singer
with a voice that
was unforgettable
and sadthis brilliant mind
let her heart
feeland
that night
at the landmark hotel
she was buried alive
by an insatiable
desire
for the
unattainableJane Palmer is a professor, activist, writer, and part-time MFA student at American University. She writes poetry, creative non-fiction, picture books, and academic articles. She spends her screen-free time searching for the best playground ever with her 6 year old, sewing, hanging out with friends, traveling, and dreaming of a world without violence.
“golden shovel poem (after lino anunciacion’s anchored, house fire II)” by Ishanee Chanda
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golden shovel poem
(after lino anunciacion’s anchored, house fire II)when tate is sleeping, i
find myself making a joke and a wish;
a joke that there is nothing more in this life to
dream of, and a wish that every light shift
in the room is the earth beckoning us into
eden. when gravity bends into her jawline, something
stirs inside of me. this bed is soft.
the blinds are pulled, and
eternity hums silent
like a small
prayer. is it enough
to love quietly, to
worship when there is sleep
in their eyes or hesitation under
their breath. the
question is if love is worth more in the shade
or out in the sun. we should ask this of
our lovers. what is your
last failure. where in your collarbone
do you keep your sorrow. for
how many years can we see the
end of this. can i rest
at home there, at the end of
this rope, with you. will you be my
everlasting peace. tate, you are the love of my life.Ishanee Chanda is a prose writer and poet from Dallas, Texas. She is the author of two books of poetry, oh, these walls, they crumble (2018) and The Overflow (2018). Ishanee enjoys Netflix marathons, making pasta from scratch, and shaking cocktails for other people. She lives in Brookland, Washington DC with her little family.
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Ishanee Chanda is a resident of Brookland.
“Owls” by Robert L. Giron
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Owls
The scent of fresh basil
wet by the light shower
mixed with the aroma
of hyacinths imbue the air.Slowly night creatures
venture from their dens,
searching for wants, needs.Safe, the environs are lush
with life.The owls keep watch.
Gradually, clouds move in
casting a pall,
deafening the din.Sentient,
the owls call out,
as two, four, six
are hauled away,
others hide.The scent of day and night
transformed into fear and ash.Now, the piercing owls’ vigil
wails the wake.All
—ready to take flightRobert L. Giron
Robert L. Giron’s latest collection of poetry is Songs for the Spirit / Canciones para el Espíritu (Gival Press, 2023). He has authored five other collections of poetry and has edited five anthologies. His poetry and fiction have appeared in national and international anthologies among other publications. Born in Nebraska, he describes himself as a transplanted Texan, with family roots that go back over four centuries. He lives in Arlington, Virginia, with his husband Ken. An American of diverse ethnicities and trilingual, he describes himself as “just a man of the world” who can easily fit in with various cultural groups.
“Dear Pat Parker,” by Richard Hamilton
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Dear Pat Parker,
Inhuman haze of hospital stays.
By bouquet of nasturtiums wild,
and quills, for anodynes. A hardheadmakes a soft behind. Or pious path
to galling verse, the sweat of
queer bells sway. For patent bluesedate of wings, the plowman
shepherd, fisherman. The fat of
judgement’s sounder days, whenall for flesh-light heaven made.
A hardhead makes a soft behind—
the child and sickly, self-forbidden.The impetus for skyline, limned.
Or sun which turned those
harlot wings. No mastery in man’s great fall,if closer wed than to absolve.
A hardhead makes a soft behind.
O, Icarus. Parker to the partridgetree: admonish thee, impoverished staff.
A body, taint butts up against
another tainted body.Richard Hamilton was born in Elizabeth, NJ and raised in the American south. Hamilton holds degrees from Colorado State University, New York University, and the University of Alabama, where he earned an MFA in poetry. Author of Rest of Us (Re-Center Press, 2021) and Discordant (Autumn House Press, 2023), his poetry has been published in Wry Press and is forthcoming in Obsidian Journal, Ocean State Review, and Lana Turner Journal.
Richard Hamilton is a resident of Southeast.
“Barbies and Kens” by Keith David Parsons
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Barbies and Kens
With Chrysta, we played
house with her Barbies; or searched
the pine woods for mushrooms;
built a fort on the hill of shadows.Her mother’s name was Barbara
we all went to the same church
the Navy husbands played paintball
and shared their purple welts.Barb starred as Red Riding Hood
in the community theater’s Red vs. the Wolf
another husband, not hers, the lupine
co-star, and I, a deer.“Do you want to kiss me?”
Chrysta’s note was forward for ten;
and I dithered, at eight – but
eventually checked “yes.”“She’s learned her mother’s wiles!”
my mother fumed, privately
when I told her of the awkward peck
as twitterpated as sparrows in spring.Only years later did Mom tell me
of the grownup tryst that roiled the church
between the titular stars of the play
with their predatory roles reversed.They moved to England shortly after;
re-based by the Navy, it was said.
My first kiss faded like naked
plastic, smooth-chestedand blank-crotched;
a Ken-of-the-Woods
sinking into the shadows
and needles of pine.Keith David Parsons is a person who came from West Virginia, lives in Washington, DC and is less conflicted about it than you might think. Parsons is a member of DC Poetry Collective; and was featured in iNK BLOTS, Vols. 1 and 2.
Keith David Parsons is a resident of Lanier Heights.
“Aubade with Grain, Gold, and Feather” by holly mason badra
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Aubade with Grain, Gold, and Feather
Morning touches the cottage window.
We wake to the sound of cows grazing—
this idyllic pastoral.We are learning to listen
to each other’s silences.To ease the landscape
of the mind.Two calves touch heads,
siblings whispering.Their bellied songs hold us
where we are gazing.Horses at the fence
flex their muscles,
hooves in the grain.The word pasture sounds like pastor.
I have better experiences with the first.The barn cat drops a feather at the door.
What was once in flight
is now grounded.I recall the angel figurine
in the flower display at Baba’s funeral.
Her wings lined in gold.I kept the small statue
to remind me of Baba’s
all-encompassing calm.A feather of a man.
Light, soft, ephemeral.Radiant, too, like the peacock’s plumage,
and a sense of majesty to match.The angels of my childhood
are tarnished with exclusion.I’ve met earth angels since then.
The woman on the metro
empathizing with me
after a night gone not so right.My nephew
when he offers me a kiss without request.My beloved
who reminds me to be here now.
She says, “Don’t go down the rabbit hole.”Return.
*
A bird has built a nest on the deck.
I open the door—
small chirps asking.We are all born
with this soft hunger.Hold it in your hands.
Holly Mason Badra received her MFA in Poetry from George Mason University. Her work is published in various journals. As a Kurdish-American poet, her recent projects focus on highlighting Kurdish women writers. She is the Associate Director of Women and Gender Studies at GMU.
Previously appeared in Meridian. Reprinted with permission of Meridian.“Count Your Blessings” by Regie Cabico
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Count your blessings,
Essex Hemphill autographed inscription, 1994
I was 23 and a fledgling homosexual
lost at Limelight.Essex Hemphill
who wrote of gay weddings
and ballroomsEssex Hemphill
who named corruption in DC,
who lived with HIV,and dismantled queerphobia
by staging same-sex kiss-ins
on church stepsThat Essex inspired me
to compose my Filipino rainbow narrative.I don’t count my blessings
but recount the unexpected goodnesses
of the day:Teachers who greet me with coffee,
Students who tackle haikus with onomatopoeia,
My nephew in his baby Yoda birthday bathrobe,Shall I count the blessings I witness
Or count the blessings I grant
*
Iona Senior Center
Karin, a soprano taught the patients a canonAll things shall perish
From under the sky
Music alone shall live
Never to dieBill, a once-upon-a-time tenor sang a solo
And weptKarin wept
Cecilia wept
I weptWeeping is its own music
Did we weep at his intention or
The fact that Bill never spoke but could sing,Did we witness a blossoming
In radiant vibrato
Or an operatic prayer?
;Days zoom, a self-steering
Tesla car on New York Avenue
Crashing into Wendy’sI want to stay
in the belly
Of a birth canalI want to stay an idea
or polished iconPoems published
work doneI don’t feel ready for the world
Masked in black brow frames,Camouflage covid mask
Smudging my lenses,
my discontent breath,Survivor still
in a city with a disgraced Popeyes
Chicken franchiseFull of rats running
through floorboards,Anti-Vaxxers
Busboys & Poets open micers
Pontificating misinformation,shivering syllables of no, no, no
shaking every bone of meSunlight is snipped
I am enveloped by shadows
Essex, help me count my blessings…
Regie Cabico is the first Asian American and openly queer poet to win the Nuyorican Poets Cafe Grand Slam and is the Executive Director of A Gathering of the Tribes. His collection of poetry, A Rabbit in Search of a Rolex was published by Day Eight Press in 2023. He is the Kennedy Center for The Performing Arts slam poetry teaching artist and publisher of Capturing Fire Press.
Regie Cabico is a resident of Union Market.
“After Cavafy” by Bernard Welt
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After Cavafy
I like Scott.
Jeremy is a perfect dear.
Tim is amazing.
Allen I could live without altogether.
Martin is up to something.
Seriously, I don’t know how Johan does it.
Jim is in for a big surprise.
Alistair’s very connected, you know.
I really don’t know what’s to become of Alberto.
Karl will grow out if it.
Steven went to one of those private boarding schools, so it’s like . . . y’know . . Colin — I mean, where do you start?
Nelson’s been at this a long while.
I wouldn’t trust Destry in a dark corner.
Daniel shouldn’t have but of course he did.
Look, I adore Ellis, but really…Franklin has an opinion on everything, and unfortunately, he’s usually right.
I don’t know what they expected when they named him Roy.
Oh yeah, Walter. Again.
Calvin has a certain quality, don’t you think?
I can’t wait to hear what Antonio has to say about this.
I don’t think Wayne has any idea.
Wes likes ‘em young and pretty.
Um … Billy. Well, uh . . .yeah.
Henry? If I did, I’ll never tell.
If Bob would get off his ass once in a while, he could conquer the world.
Reggie’s one of those people who … well, I don’t know what.
Lester? I wouldn’t piss on him if his hair was on fire.
Trevor is just such a lovely person. That’s his whole problem, really.
It’s terrible about Howard but honestly, he brought it on himself.Bernard Welt’s poetry has appeared widely in journals, art catalogs, and anthologies including The Best American Poetry. He started his education in poetry at the Mass Transit open readings and the Folio Books readings in Washington, DC, and in The Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. He has received a US National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writers Fellowship and a Lambda Book Award nomination.
“Who’s Urvashi” by Sunu P. Chandy
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Who’s Urvashi?
It was a season of lowkey
thinking my life was over
because I had this weird
crush on L. Could not in any way
imagine my life
moving forward in that lane.
Carefully told one friend,
but assured her
this whole thing had to be
on the back burner.
And then that summer
after the first year of college
at our Chicagoland
social justice internships
my new work best friend Richard
Sandman casually asked
if I wanted to go hear Urvashi Vaid speak.
Who’s Urvashi?
Who’s Urvashi?
Yeah, who’s Urvashi?
It was akin to someone
throwing me a life jacket
even before I realized
without one I certainly
would have drowned.
It was a life jacket that meant
my life was possible. Others
have done this before.
Others with families
from India have done this.
Others, in India,
have done this.
I certainly fell out
of my chair that summer afternoon,
the window to our beloved
Lake Michigan and Richard
my only witnesses. I must have
sat there with my mouth wide open
equally with shock and delight.
And every time now when I worry
for all the reasons there are to worry
about being out, in this world, I remember
those two college interns
in the summer of 1991, sharing this kind
of information, the kind of information,
so crucial, to building our lives.Sunu P. Chandy (she/her) is a social justice activist as a poet and a civil rights attorney. She is the daughter of immigrants from Kerala, India, and lives in Washington, DC with her family. Sunu’s award-winning collection of poems, My Dear Comrades, was published by Regal House in 2023. Sunu’s work can be found in in anthologies including The Penguin Book of Indian Poets and The Long Devotion: Poets Writing Motherhood. Sunu is currently a Senior Advisor with Democracy Forward, and serves on the board of the Transgender Law Center. Sunu has been named as one of the Queer Women of Washington.
Sunu P. Chandy is a resident of Van Ness.
N/A“This Smile (after Mary Bowman)” by Chris Thomas
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This Smile
After Mary BowmanThis smile right here ain’t no accident.
On purpose is this smile.
Intentional, charismatic, focused,
This smile is sexy as fuck.Bare feet rooted in soil,
Ready for the world is this smile.
Ancestors rejoicing,
Wildest dreams coming true.
This smile is life everlasting.This smile has a past,
But is present with a future.
This smile exists!“Be determined,” said this smile.
“Ain’t nobody got nothing on you,” fervent is this smile.
“Yes, Mx. Cunty Hunty,” werk this smile.
“All I see for me is better days,” shouts this smile.This smile is affirmation.
I know you love this smile.
Not as much as me.This smile is confident,
Learned to let go,
Is forgiveness,
Dances like no tomorrow.
Freedom is this smile.This smile is important,
This smile is kind,
This smile is smart.Looks in the mirror and sees my mama
This smile.I’m here alive with this smile.
I’m a survivor, fall to my knees,
give thanks for this smile.Never giving up this smile.
Unapologetic is this smile.Never turned its back,
Looks forward with this smile.
Grateful grateful grateful is this smile.I cried with this smile,
Became one with this smile,
Stopped pretending to
smile with this smile.I fought for this smile.
I love this smile.
By Chris Thomas
Copyright© 2023Chris Thomas is a Queer Black Non-Binary individual wielding words to champion Child Abuse Prevention, LGBTQIA rights, and Mental Health Awareness. Recognized by NUSPA in 2015, C. mesmerizes audiences as a performer and leads at venues like Angelina College, Georgetown University, Jefferson University, and Howard University. Collaborating with NVAFA and Carlyle House, they curate events celebrating African American excellence. Their workshop, Writing to Wellness™, empowers healing through poetry amid trauma. Advocacy spans educating adults on responding to Child Sexual Abuse and board service.
Chris Thomas is a resident of DC.
Author of Reclamation; reprinted by permission of the author“Someone Sang for Me” by Alex Carrigan
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Someone Sang for Me
After Joy Harjo’s “A Refuge in the Smallest of Places”Someone sang for me and no one else could hear it.
I had to step outside to see if I could make out the words.The words took me back to rotting steps and
peanut shells scattered across the dusty porch.The dusty porch where I watched tall grass bend and sway
with the melody that creeped out of it on summer nights.On summer nights, I matched the rocking of my chair
with the whistles Nanny made with each sip of her bottle.Her bottles gathered by the side of her chair as she muttered and
hummed anything that came to mind, while cicadas provided backup.I’m backed up into this memory now that I find myself
watching my own mother repeat these songs in her bed.The bed creaks as the song begins anew in my mind.
Someone sang for me and no one else could hear it.Alex Carrigan (he/him) is a Pushcart-nominated editor, poet, and critic from Alexandria, VA. He is the author of Now Let’s Get Brunch: A Collection of RuPaul’s Drag Race Twitter Poetry (Querencia Press, 2023) and May All Our Pain Be Champagne: A Collection of Real Housewives Twitter Poetry (Alien Buddha Press, 2022). He has appeared in The Broadkill Review, Sage Cigarettes, Barrelhouse, Fifth Wheel Press, Cutbow Quarterly, and more.
“sing me at midnight” by Andy VanDoren
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sing me at midnight
for/after Wilfred Owenthe dawn of spring is a memory
buried with the past, salted with the earthsilent, where once day broke
in song, and not spirits nor on bones.dead boys in their dusk, on their way
to you, with your murmurous heart,a chord concealed under cloak of
midnight, a future unexhumed.Andy VanDoren (the pen name of a local artist) is a queer, synesthetic poet inspired by natural phenomena. Themes of their work include abstracting reality and unreliable narrators. Through poetry, they paint pictures of how the world looks from inside their mind. They are published in Celestite Poetry, Lavender Lime, Ink Drinkers, and more.
Andy VanDoren is a resident of Brookland.
“Ode to My Mother” by Jona Colson
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Ode to My Mother
I remember how you taught me numbers.
Counting the trees and cardinals—one, two, three.
I remember how you loved me. I was your extra prince.
But where do extra princes go? Up? Down? Out on the limb?
I was learning to detach from the numbers and the prayers.
There is always despair in the body. Trauma wedded to bliss.
Today is no different than the day when your breathing stopped.
I was not good enough to let go and follow you. Here—
watch the sparrows in the oak. One, two, three.Jona Colson is Queer poet, educator, and translator. His poetry collection, Said Through Glass, won the Jean Feldman Poetry Prize (Washington Writers’ Publishing House, 2018). He has translated a full-length translated collection of poems Aguas/Waters by Uruguayan author Miguel Avero (WWPH, 2024). He is also the co-editor of This Is What America Looks Like: Poetry and Fiction from D.C., Maryland, and Virginia (WWPH, 2021). His poems have appeared in Ploughshares, The Southern Review, The Massachusetts Review and elsewhere. He is co-president of the Washington Writers’ Publishing House and edits the bi-weekly journal, WWPH Writes. He is a professor of ESL at Montgomery College and lives in Washington, DC.
Jona Colson is a resident of Dupont Circle.
“Demuth In Lancaster” by Dan Vera
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Demuth In Lancaster
There is a crusade against vice in Lancaster…I am going home to speak for vice. Charles Demuth (1883-1935)
Sugar vein flower lover.You arose from your mother Augusta’s garden,
to draw the world precise and alive
that perfect geometry of this city
its factory lines abstracted,
the pulsing curve of tulips and apples
red cabbage and rhubarb alongside the revelation
of warmer flowers in the steam baths of New York,
the mystical codes of numbers and sky,
everything came alive in you.Deem, how amiable was your laugh
to charm the bitterest of artist hearts—
even Georgia O’Keefe the scowl loved you
and William Carlos prized you so
for your generous embrace.You seem all but forgotten now
even on the brick streets of the city you returned to,
Where you spent your last days with the needle and the brush.At King and Duke streets, your house is a museum now,
Your watercolors, blossoms of petal and flesh
hang in sight of Augusta’s Victorian flowered rows,
The fruit, the vegetable, the silo, the cityscape,
in the front room,
the nudes in the darkest corners
standing as you found them
gleaming in their wet caverns of joy.Dan Vera is an award-winning writer, editor, and literary historian living in Washington, DC. The author of two poetry collections and co-editor of Imaniman: Poets Writing In The Anzaldúan Borderlands, his next book of poetry will be released in 2025 from FlowerSong Press. His poetry appears in various journals, anthologies, and academic curricula and in the Library of America’s Latino Poetry anthology out this year.
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Dan Vera is a resident of Brookland.
© Dan Vera“December 4th, 2022 at 8:59pm” by Rachel L. Dixon
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December 4th, 2022 at 8:59 pm
i’m on the bus headed home from new york
sitting next to my best friend
we just celebrated her birthday
and it was a beautiful weekend
it always is golden surrounded by the love good friends provide
I don’t know whether its the bus that makes me melancholy
or being a permanent 7th wheel.
I spent all weekend harmlessly flirting with their significant others
we laugh about iti sit on the bus and my friend cries a little
because her girlfriend lives in the city
we don’t know when she’s going to leave me to go pursue her life up there
but she willthe level of anonymity generated from being another person in transit is freeing
today I wandered through a neighborhood I might never see againa prayer attempts to leave my lips here in the dark
I want to fearlessly run towards the rest of my lifeI got a tattoo a few days ago
my first one that isn’t hidden
a stamp of approval for my own creative spirit
I prayed to my grandmother before the needle met my skin,
Is it alright?
because it’s of some lemons
she had a lemon tree in her backyard when I was growing up
it grew lemons as big as your head
juicy and sweet and when you have lemons
you must make lemonadethe people who bought her house tore down the tree
but she answered yes
so it will live on me, forevermy birthday is next week, in just a few days
I don’t know what this next year will bring
but I pray to my grandmother
I don’t have any answers
I’m trying to be okay with thatRachel Dixon is a theater artist local to the DMV area. She works as a teaching artist with Arena Stage, as well as the Managing Director for We Happy Few. Her other written work has been published in New York publication, TheaterHound.
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Pride Poems 2024
