What Place do Books Have?

Reading is liberation from ignorance.

It’s redemption

And draws attention

To experiences through new or familiar eyes.

Picking up a book took curiosity and courage

Reading it took patience.

A relationship is formed with the speaker when we dive into their world.

The writer takes us on journey as we tango over arches and status quo’s, all the way to the last page.

Where their catharsis ends and my desire for assimilation begins.

My world shifted when I entered the realm of shared experiences,

Perceiving that the things we share are often more important than things we don’t.

Black writers helped me decipher the relationship with my skin

And the sour taste of our culture that stretches across seas and purifies dreams

In little minds.

Those stories were birthed from real experiences in their time -

Over 50 years later a young Black British girl was experiencing something similar,

And I saw her in those chapters. Her silence was loud.

A book gave the gift of insight into the “angriest black man in America”.

The first read was eye opening and the second was almost like recalling a moment from memory.

We pass down these books like passing the figurative baton to those behind us.

Seasons of knowledge for potentiality to bloom into greatness,

And how will I get to use this?

The way a writer conceptualises and shares, is miraculous

Strengthening bonds between generations.

Personally,

Reading books is like holding hands with history,

And recognising the seeds that are growing in my present.

History, no matter where or when it takes place, replicates.

Therefore, truth telling leaves room for genuine connection

So that obliviousness does not consume us.

The place books have in my world is crucial, and

Holds a purpose that is greater than me alone.

by Abigail Tucker

Sat on the Curb

Sat on the curb


On the edge of this stupid world

Legs dangling into a sparkling void

I think,


If I could jump into it


I would

Why not?


I would be crushed in its embrace

Choked to ecstasy


A final rush before the everlasting peace

If I got intoxicated tonight


Would I get to be a different person tomorrow?

Maybe for a moment

For a moment you’ll feel the rush of a different life

Of being someone you’ll never get to be

You know it’ll fade,

You don’t need me to tell you that.

by Liliana Tucker

Untitled

blackberry stains tanned skin,

the periphery of sickly sweet.

days stretch languidly, billowing

wider as the fans blows the sweat from your

brow

sleep an unwelcome stranger,

vocalised thoughts seem

to have more solidity than the dreams that drip from

my

tongue,

sunlight on our shoulders, the stars spilled

across your lips.

heat was always distasteful to me, ironic since the

air was charred upon my birth,

yet the warmth of your breath against my ear,

fingers

and valleys and mountains intertwined feels right.

‘love?’

blurred by hesitation and doubt.

perishes on my tongue

you made me lust for the fever, the burn

scorched skin.

maybe this is it,

love tastes like summer berries.

by Nia

Monkey Parts

I enter the room

Ten toes on sterile floors

The doctor is ready to examine me

I wrap my indecent parts in tissue

Hop on board the sailor’s ship

ready to go with the wind

He takes a part of my leg

From the knee to the ankle

“It’s got to go” he says

What “It’s all rotten.”

They’ve been experimenting with monkey parts

“I’ve got one just right for you”

What “skin tone… and all”

I don't want to be different, or more so in this society

He’s hunched over watching me twitch in fascination

I won’t feel the pain of his grip on my leg soon.

It will fade

I hold the catalogue above my head

“They are sacrificed for you”

He’s talking about the monkey parts again

“Pick one with a pretty name”

The man, the doctor, the one with the masked face

is out of my sight now

Standing behind my head

I’ve heard from my sisters the process is painless

I’ve listened to them howl in their sleep at night

It’s time for me to go now, and

when I awaken, I’ll have my monkey parts

And he will have profited

by Fowsia

Mhm. Yes, Of Course

I’m still here. listening. I’m not

sorry

oops, that’s overused. Tell me something

better. Sounds

good. Hmm, mhm. I’m listening

Yes, queen. Bees buzz

past my black, light

absorbing pupils like Face-

Time. Ring ring, rainbow wind

chimes. Listening to the unnamable birds with two tapping

thumbs on the screen. Blues. Feather


head. Tweet tweet. Look it up or down

scroll some more. Queen E bye bye


birdy. The throne is so blue from up


her(e) blue j-


ust like the sky. No one knows

why, we just daze on and forget to admire the canvas

as it alters

before our red, dormant volcano

eyes. Bedhead even when brushed

for the day. The realist


objects are responsibly writing themselves


outside of this plane’s flimsy limits.


Lavender air in spring or sapphire summer is just like a present

poetry collection (unfinished when on

view for the world), lemon scents inviting us

to scratch the surface, and land


upon golden pollen & & & this grand rising

of the chest can combat pollution if you would please

let it out w/out force, honey.

by Maria

Fearfully and Wonderfully... Dysphoric

I look in the mirror


And see the buzzcut of a lost daughter

Stubble gripping her chin


That sinful fruit wedged in her throat

Choking her


She gasps


Each uttered syllable cracking and aching

Escaping her lips

Shoulders broadening with repugnance

Tear-soaked calloused hands


Gripping a chest that never grew

Skin hardening


Atop the development of bones


A structure that can never be undone

Becoming an abomination before her eyes

Stiffening of her genitals


She desperately hides them away


Dark and thick hair grows down her once

smooth legs


Encasing them in shame

A body matures and morphs before her

Swelling of confusion and bitterness within

her

I gaze in the mirror


I’m empowered as


I see the most recent incarnation of a story

with no ending

He begins to slip away

Each day she becomes

More visible


More real

More tangible

I’m empowered by her will

Not to live


But to thrive

She is alive

by Rae Lee

Blue Beyond

we cry for our mothers

as we one day learn

that being confined is luxury

that there is beauty in training bras and peel off polish

in sidewalk chalk and dollhouses

in visiting womanhood as one visits the beach

something to dip your toes in

to swim in,

let cool the rushing heat of your preteen hunger

of your thirst to be grown and taken serious

to sip of, and decide that blue is pretty enough to stomach the salt

but there was always something to reach for

your age, your youth

a dock behind you

when your small light limbs grew tired of fighting current and making desperate waves

there was always land

until one day you reach back

and you find splinters

and blue

and blue

and blue

by Sariah Lake

Times Like This

There are times
Times like this
Where I yearn for the law of the streets
I am by no means versed
But based on the evidence I have gathered
From Bonnie and Clyde
And Power
And Breaking Bad
And Scarface
Justice actually exists
On the streets
Not the PC powder puff
Farcical justice
Being pandered to us in the courts
No, the sweet swift brutal justice
Of our ancestors
That meant one had to actually pay
For ones own crimes
Let's just say they got it wrong
Forty percent of the time
There are times
Times like this
Where I'd trade for that
At the drop of a dime
As my brother gets in from his night shift
As my lover leaves my arms this morning
May our ancestors protect him
Please may he not be
Yet another victim

by Chihoro