I began “she testifies” after Tina Fontaine’s body was pulled from the Red River in 2014. In the poem, water itself speaks back on behalf of womxn/girls about the multiple violences done to them, and on behalf of Emmett Till, whose black body was at the centre of a 1955 racially-motivated murder in Mississippi. Water refuses to collude with these killers or to participate in their heinous settler-colonial/patriarchal attempts at silencing: “like glass, I drove her fragments to shore.”
It started with the socks. I keep my socks in pairs but he hated to match them, see, preferred to have the left one complement the right compliment, we’d joke looking nice today, rightie. I’d mismatch my pedicures looking nice today but kept my socks in pairs. Kept my socks grey and white and black and sometimes argyle always in pairs— I sell junk to multi-millionaires, I’d say, I can’t just have mismatching socks.
Welmmann’s work is a direct descendent of Meret Oppenheim's and Elsa Schiaparelli’s. And just as Oppenheim and Schiaparelli, Wellmann is on the “right side” of representation of the female form. On a platform ridden with casual and blatant misogyny, there is repose in Wellmann’s posts.
Nguyen’s new collection Violet Energy Ingots is out this week from Wave Books and the act of reaching seems an apt way to describe the collection, both in terms of Nguyen’s project and what it demands of its reader.
Inhale. I take a deep breath in through my nostrils. The air travels through the cartilaginous rings of my trachea, divides at the bifurcation of the bronchi, rushes down smaller and smaller pathways. It expands my lungs, widening my ribcage, stretching my diaphragm, raising my collarbones. Seconds pass before I release the breath, letting it stream out slowly, whispering away to nothing. Exhale.
The street sparkled with ice and the remnants of midnight. Angela loved walking at night, especially in winter. The air so cold it singed the hair in her nostrils, the tree branches a broken calligraphy against the sky, the moon whitely grinning or opening its mouth wide to aaahhh, to sing. The silence of the empty empty streets.
It’s too late to rename NASA’s lunar program but never too late to wonder why it was called Apollo and not Diana It’s too late to be the kind of boy who grows up to be an astronaut It’s too late to be any kind of boy (girls can be anything but first they should be quiet)
I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard statements like, “I don’t read poetry. I just don’t get it.” While poetry can seem inaccessible and impossible to understand, it is important for and relevant to everyone!
Literary journals are unique, playful spaces that foster dialogue between readers and writers and transform the meanings of texts. When read publicly, these texts expand even more as listeners generate their own interpretations.