Soul-mate (Skyra Rideaux- Carencro, LA)

Our bond and his hands remained a strong connection and kept me tethered to life. People who saw us together would smile at the warmth that emanated from our bodies; flowing through my hands into his. And always his hands would hold me closer than life itself, binding me to him, and him to me. We would sit and talk for hours about paved roads that used to be gravel, books he’d never read, and foods from foreign countries he would never visit. He inspired my love of music from decades before me, and together we would dance and sing, in a world created only for us. I can remember him, in the kitchen, his hands moving and creating foods he knew I would love. Sometimes I would open the door and he’d be standing next to the stove, his back to me. I’d tip toe around the table and squeeze him heartily from behind; his body would immediately react to my touch. His hands often calloused but always soft, would find mine and we’d stand there clinging to each other, our familiarity radiating between our fingers. He would turn slowly around, cupping my face, and kiss me on my forehead. I’d gaze up into his eyes; there were no tears, we’d been here before. He stole my heart the moment we met and from then on we became inseparable. It was always about him, the man who raised me from dust to dust, coated in marble, buried in darkness.
I once called him father.

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 ...

Lunatic (Lily Lechler - New Orleans, LA)

“Lunacy” comes from the moon, Who cycles through brilliance and darkness Bipolarity’s patterns are not so easily assumed Opposites not so well harnessed Who cycles through brilliance and darkness? The girl who sits in bed, wrestling with Opposites. Not so well harnessed As she thought, her brain gives reason the slip The girl who sits in bed, wrestling with Her body, depressed, her thoughts manic. As she thought, her brain gave reason the slip And gives the gift of life in a dreamlike panic. Her body depressed her thoughts. Manic Lunacy comes from the moon And gives the gift of life in a dreamlike panic Bipolarity’s patterns are not so easily assumed

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