Sacha Marvin Hodges is a writer, director, planner and architectural designer, from Virginia. A Callaloo and Cave Canem fellow, Hodges currently resides in the occupied Powhatan land known as Richmond, VA.

floc·ci·nau·ci·ni·hil·i·pil·i·fi·ca·tion: in two parts

or should the sermon go awry…

I.               the preamble: after patricia smith

i’ve watched the river undress.
joined its unholy           frenzy.
swam   under the sheets       &
snatched the old brass  clock
from fate's         decrepit
knuckles.
the river                  campy &
aroused whispers:
          i want my water back
—a dry effort
     having had enough
     of my shit.
it tries         to yank its gangly
offspring          out my lungs
             clothe
my grateful rage          my shy
blood.
  but the body        don’t oblige
    forks over
          the soul instead
—a black barter.
        an exchange of wet   hell
     damnation.    a fever   pitch
            weak thing
          honest birth. 
see it breathe
on accident        a doe’s first
steps           all encased
in a                      cavity
                               shepherd
  the wandering
        bones       anew.
speak not of the
cowardly          arsenal under
your teeth.       
click            click           click
to the tune      of the   bastard
unburdened.
      coddle      your  violent vacancy
like spoiled milk          in the
fridge           —a minor
infraction
but still a waste    
all the same.

Semein Washington is a 29 year old poet whose published work can be found in Light, Eye to the Telescope, Sijo: An International Journal of Poetry and Song, Sonder Midwest, and is forthcoming in Hawai’i Review. Semein's work is ecstatic poetry discussing topics of nature, science, religion, music, comic books, and human experience. He currently lives in Richmond, Virginia and teaches as an adjunct professor of English at John Tyler Community College.

I Remember Beringia Whole, 

deep in my mitochondria,
through the long chain of mothers
that brought me here today, 
as the taste of lousewort flowers
and lingonberry, the smell of Labrador Tea
blooming a spice box in the open tundra,
and of tanning caribou hide 
hanging beside my door.
The soles of my feet, the pads of my toes,
press into soft moss and liverwort
painting black soil a spectrum
of yellow-green and red. 
Cities of people creep by on the skyline,
spaced by months, in parties of twenty
at the most. Sometimes, I see the bones
they leave, the small hide drawbags 
discarded for holes worn through them. 
Sometimes, they walk to my fish camp,
surprised to find there is no family with me, 
and ask me questions in a dialect funny to my ears. 
Sometimes, I lead them to the men’s and women’s houses,
where they can rest a night, long enough to teach a dance
they do in the east. 

I remember Beringia whole
in the bee-loud summer and the winter without sound,
wondering why we need Minoan cities
to fit criteria for Atlantis, 
unaware of a million graves lapped up 
by the ocean, the glacial migration inland
of thousands upon thousands
of years settled,
writing songs to spontaneous laughter
on a hillside the water will expose
again in times as distant, 
beyond the memory of my name.

Rosa Castellano is a writer and teacher living in Richmond, VA, whose work has been supported by the Visual Arts Center of Virginia and by Tin House. She received a MFA in poetry from Virginia Commonwealth University and her work can be found or is forthcoming from the Southampton Review Online and The Coil. 

All is Telling

I am not a storyteller
but do not doubt
the brown and boney 
beginning—
the girl I was
in natted, terry-cloth 
shorts too short
hungry
sweating-hot, and lonely.
Who prayed a hurricane 
to launch the Loblolly
and send them spearing
through the walls 
of our Florida-green 
doublewide trailer.

Let me begin again
once upon a time
my dad drank
his K car into a tree.
In the yard, I squeezed 
into the crushed 
V of the hood 
a brown Alice 
in a ruffled metal 
Wonderland. Following 
the sun-heated steel 
to the cracked 
and shining glass
I raised my skinny arms 
and prayed.

I prayed the moss 
down from the trees
the father, from the house. 
I prayed until the stars 
that swum inside 
my twelve-year-old body 
flew out my eyes 
white hot 
as the sun 
burning steel
ripping cloth 
tearing 
thigh 
to scar. 

It’s a mouth 
that dark 
thumb of skin
a story, curious 
as the shine of glass 
on asphalt or the way 
wind can sometimes
come
from nothing.

Lysania Thomas is a brown, queer, woman storyteller, acclaimed as a two-time Southern Fried Poetry Slam Champion and four-time winner of Philadelphia Pride Poetry Slam. She is a highly regarded performer, host, workshop leader, and social justice education artist. Rooted in her various global communities, having spent her life at the intersection of arts, education and activism, Lysania’s work in youth development, LGBTQ+ advocacy and Prison Poetry (Reform) are the compass for her writing and passion. She has opened for the likes of Maya Angelou, Angela Davis, Nikki Giovanni, Sonia Sanchez, The Roots and many more. Lysania is currently working on her first book of poetry and resides in Portland, Oregon with her partner, child and pup, Jersey.

Korryn Gaines  

(In the Key of Nikki-Rosa) 

and like wit’ most storms that had traveled the chitlin’ circuit  
big mad, moonshine heavy breath, violently picketin’ bodies  
an' plywood for a once-love,  
to make 'em more puddle than monsoon, again.  

us kids unplugged what we hadn't broken, fully-- momma’s curlin’  
iron, the cable box, the t.v., the microwave, the oven.  
then sat still an’ waited for God to be almighty.  

waited for an almighty God to bully the devil out the sky, from the earth  and clear cross town where surely him and his lady friend could rekindle the kind of passion  that make a man go mad 'nough to dismantle his creator’s creations.  

waited an’ prayed and watched as the water rose and the big oak in the front yard split like  cherry blossom switches momma would braid and spit on.  

us  
prayed and waited  
in the musk of a darkness that trapped us and  
freed us, equally.  

"fix it, Lord." momma sang and rocked.  
just as the sidin’ on the house began to remove itself  
with all the help of a prepubescent, eager wind.  

us  
waited and prayed and watched momma believe and not.  
as each cord played wrong 'cross the sky like the earth flat.  
thunder echoed like Catfish hollerin’ out for Charlene on Friday nights when  he had too much juice and not enough reefer. and she come lookin’ for  momma to hide cause, “Catfish scary when he get all coked up like dat.”  

us prayin’ wit’ eyes tight like hide  
and seek, vocal cords clipped  
waitin’ for God, to be God.  

waitin’ for Catfish and Charlene to blast they Otis and Curtis and  
Luther and stank up our shared porch wit’ black and milds and paper  bag rum.  

for Ms. Linda, from ‘cross the way to tend to the vegetable garden  
the landlord said she can't have but "Baaaby!" she said, laughin’ 
so hard you could see all the well-polished gold caps in the back  of her mouth.  
prayin’ for Mookey to come ask to borrow sumin’ wit’ his stank tail.  

“fix it, Lord.” momma sang and rocked.  
momma not, and believin’.  

us waitin’ for permission to be  
scared, and to touch our momma  
like we hers.  

us is storm in the dark with the  
storm  

out the door and in. always tryin’ to get to  
the eye.  

us prayin’ eyes closed tight. vocal cords  
clipped i pray for the sun. not God. for  
honeysuckles and the candy lady. not God. for  
breakfast, school donuts and pizza. not God. for  
recess and English class. not God.  
for the quiet of Mrs. Glenda’s school-bus rides. not God.  
“fix it, Lord!” yeah, fix it Lord! “fix  
it, Lord!” yeah, fix it Lord!  
but God don’t show  
up like God.  

Catfish play Otis and Luther and Curtis anyway. bring candles and candy wit’  a black hangin’ off his lips, reekin’ of reefer and paper bag rum, like usual.  an’ Ms. Glenda cry so hard 'bout her garden being drowned you  can see all her well-polished golds in the front of her mouth.  an’ Charlene come on Friday, like the Friday before the Friday before.  an’ Mookey come beggin’ like all the other days wit’ his stank tail still stankin’.  

an’ momma still believe, and  
not.  
and I begin to think maybe,  
wasn’t nothin’ for God to fix  
‘cept the sidin, which  
needed changin’  
anyways.