Drifting (Rachel Jackson-Lafayette, LA)

Lived in Spain for a year of my youth.

I met there a tall, dark Spaniard.

Met him in the east

But he swooned me down south

To the land of Andalucía.

Now this is a land where the sun shines long,

The raindrops dry before they fall.

The people go to sleep

In the heat of the day;

Their nights last into the morning.

As one passes under the arches to the alleys

That lead to plazas facing old cathedrals,

A strange breeze misdirects you

And turns you towards the sea,

Scarcely do you recall which way your home is.

I wandered many paths here, my Spaniard walking near,

Absorbed this land's strange wind with him beside me.

At times he claimed to know quite well

The road on which we wandered.

At times there was no road for him to know.

This Spaniard, much as I did, thrived on floating freely.

He moved about wherever the spirit called him.

He scarcely showed confusion,

More often nods quite certain

Even when he did not understand.

I sat with him beside the seas, where Mediterranean greets Atlantic.

We talked of further travels further south

I too nodded freely

Though in my neck complaining

A growing well of promises inert.

I glanced west to the Atlantic, unending span of liquid,

Knew I'd cross it before I crossed the other.

I quit nodding and grew silent

My Spaniard's head quite still now.

He had no home to draw him from his wandering.

Comments

Come Hither (Annette Redmond Walters - Lafayette, LA)

I meant it not this way but the tears just flow and my makeup smearing all the more, leaving behind that familiar filthy residue. I may have begun to drive myself away, dragging you down as well. But it's done, I've flipped the switch and now it's dark once more. How painful is the music to my ears, I can't stand to be alone in it, yet here I am again. I pray you fly back and safely and warmly to me, though I fear I've dug the grave too deeply. As the dirt shifts within my soul, I choke on those loving words I'd meant for you. All the fragments of light I see becoming smaller and I wish to be near you in your embrace that might make me feel the warmth I'm missing. And in reality, I doubt I'd breathe another breath without you. So come hither and quickly soothe my dying heart, you are the only cure I know. I cry and cry again, come hither to heal and love me. Come hither and help me dry my tears.

Let That Fucker Burn (John Chenvert - Napoleonville, LA)

Let that fucker burn. Let the fire crackle like the whips once did— like bone meeting leather, like screams swallowed by the trees. Let the white columns crumble to ash. Not as tragedy— but as truth, unearthing itself from beneath generations of silence. Nottoway is not a mansion. It’s a mausoleum. A lie carved in stone to honor the hands that held the whip, not the backs that bore it. They called it the “White Castle.” A place of beauty. A place for weddings, for photo ops, for pretending that horror can be made elegant if the curtains match the guilt. But no paint can cover what happened there. Blood doesn’t wash out with white linens. And pain doesn’t forget just because you renamed it history. I’m not Black. And I won’t pretend to carry that weight. But I also won’t ignore it. My people—the Guanches—were taken too. Our language silenced. Our land stolen. Our names nearly erased. So yes, I know colonization. Yes, I know what it means to be disappeared. But I also know this— my skin ...

Dysfunctional (Taylor Coen - Lafayette, LA)

The flower sits before the tree, it is like an antagonist of nature. The rainbows fall against the clouds: colors burst into a buffet of light. Rain travels down into a puddle of water portraying the sight of an ugly ox. The strength is weak; it collapses to the ground, life flows out like a stream of consciousness. Back to the daisy and the overpowering oak, A lightning bolt strikes both. The war fades over, the mist evaporates, and sunshine gli mmers down upon a hidden valley.

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