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For Bella with Love to Jean Nate, and Janelle By Gayle Bell  Image by Shaquille Dunbar c/o nappy.co I have tiptoed on the periphery of your lives Steel butterfly Lace and lash nail and scent no safe place to hide. I was 15 and a runaway young, dumb working this hole in the wall Selling my wares Jean Nate was a flame Drag woman. Red hair, crimson dress, fingers and toes of iridium Smelling of Chanel#5 and powder. Motioning a finger her way In a gravel and whiskey voice she said Now hon, watch yoself, someones been robbing girls and shooin she waved me away a trick vying for her attention. Outside the club, attention riveted to the moon The glint of a 22. The hard stare of a man with little to lose. We walked to the path, the only sound was my blood in too big a hurry to decorate the sidewalk. hey! leave er alone muth-fucka I didn't ask where the bullet went, Torn knees and hose, mascara running, wig askew. Girl! didn I tell you, just blest get yo ass off these streets! Bella We met at the Deep Ellum Poetry Fest You hot pants (black leather!) in the shade, fishnets & stilettos your signature look. Poetry that would make Lovecraft quake You stretched full height, your butterfly metallic colors pure as your soul. Someone said you died in a car crash; your colors melting in the blaze. The full circle dusty days of my education. what a Drag my beautiful Peacock what a Drag! Gayle BellGayle Bell is a poet living in Dallas, TX who has been featured in poetry and art venues there. She identifies as a LGBTQY woman with a disability. When provoked; a fat positivity activist. Gayle’s work has been featured in numerous anthologies, print and online publications. In 2018 she performed “Black Betty, That Thangs Gone Wild”, with Cara Mia’s Storytellers, Building Communities. In 2013-2014, she was a co-docent for “My Immovable Truth-A Dallas Lineage”. She facilitated her and other GLBTQY’s oral history and performances, sponsored by (MAP-Make Art With Purpose) and displayed at the African American Museum in Dallas, TX.
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By Nætiive Gcithima  Image by José Bittencourt Neto c/o nappy.co If ever the world swallows me whole, reincarnate me. Cover me in shimmering excellence and drape the memory of me in the shades of my people. Bathe me in rough Indian seas and rinse my feet in the gentle Ethiopian coast along the north. Caress my expired existence from head to toe, make poetry of my obituary, love me in my absence and wax lyrical about my character. If ever the world swallows me whole and I forget to speak love unto my people, make it rain lead with soundtrack symphonies of shell casings hitting suburban pavements. Recreate me in the image of my mother. Mould my heart in the wrath of my father. Shape my breath in warmth and humility and carve my curves in a fine baobab trunk. Stain my lips with the taste of good food. So if ever the world swallows me whole and I forget to speak peace into you, Our history repeats itself like ‘76 with pressing footsteps, crackling fires and angry hearts. Recreate me in the essence of my grandmother and mould my heart in the humbleness of my grandfather. For souls tend to stray away from their purpose.
 I am Brown Brown like el Desierto. Brown like el Rio Bravo. Brown like el Pan de cada dia. Brown like the radical Brown Berets. Brown like the hands that harvest this land, the very hands that harvested me. I am Brown, Brown like my father’s skin, after 48 years under the sun. Brown like my mami saying: “Vas a ver cuando lleguemos a la casa” and “Comete toda la comida, que aqui no es restaurante” Brown like my abuelitos wrinkled cheeks. Brown like La Virgencita de Guadalupe, to whom my abuelita always prays. I am Brown, Brown like mi Mexico lindo, querido y adolorido. Brown like mi Mexico and the 366 lives it lost to the 7.1 earthquake. I am Brown, Brown like Los 43 de Ayotzinapa. Brown like las Piramides de Teotihuacan, la Luna y el Sol. Brown like the YEARS, YEARS, and YEARS of Spaniard colonization. Brown like the 55% of Mexican land lost to the U.S. Brown like 1821, when we gained Independencia from los Espanoles. Brown like the border, THE ONE THAT CROSSED ME. I am Brown, Brown like the American Bald Eagle, Brown like la Aguila Mexicana. I am Brown, Brown like Chente’s- Por tu Maldito Amor. Brown like Selena’s- Baila! Baila esta Cumbia. Brown like Elvis Crespo’s- Suavemente, Besame. Brown like El Mariachi Loco quiere bailar! Brown like Corridos Brown like Cumbias Brown like Banda Brown like Bachata Brown like Nortenas Brown like Huapangos Brown like Reggaeton I am Brown, Brown like Thick Trenzas. Brown like the Leather intertwined in my Huaraches. I am Brown, Brown like the dough of my Pan Dulce. Brown like the Canela in my Horchata. Brown like my Tortillas. I am Brown, Brown like the Machismo that plagues my community. Brown like todas las Mujeres, Chillonas y Chingonas. Brown like the 800,000 DREAMers. Brown like the dirt they tried to bury us in, not knowing we were seeds. Because Brown, is a color, a cultura, a communidad. That Stands Up Fights Back Resists Protects Dreams. And yes, THAT TAKES JOBS. I am Brown. Beauty is Brown. Support is Brown. Solidarity is Brown. Revolution is Brown. Resiliency is Brown. Resistance is Brown. But above all, PRIDE IS BROWN.
by Barinder Saini  They would say my English was broken, So I tried to glue it together. Some days I would lose sight of why I started, this “American Dream” remaining uncharted. After a long day of work, I come home to feed my family of five. I stare into their big brown eyes. I would come back to my senses, I’m doing this for them.
by VANS www.watermelaninmag.com  Photo by Alan Cabello c/o pexels i won't say life has always been hell but i've never felt heaven either. trenching through mud, sinking with each step, dusty olive green, and brown, and brown, and brown, just to keep ourselves warm. renaming parts of our bodies ‘til they seem to fit. ‘til we made eden. fear is a noose that wasn't made to fit our necks, so it bound our wrists instead. but you still look for hornbills in trees that aren't there anymore. and i still mistake stray lights for the moon. surely, the sky ought to mean more than this. freedom is a wire frame greenhouse that seems to be hanging from clouds, dome-vines and balcony-sun. a moon. wind for windows. and birdsong for rain. freedom is this. this kingdom we made from purgatory and olive green and brown and brown and brown and these unceremonious crystals of our misshapen bones. freedom has never meant heaven for us.
 Photo by Cayo Ferreira c/o nappy.co Satan was kicked out of heaven Because he asked God to smile One time too many. Slipped his hand on her thigh on the bus When they hit a pothole. Sang praises of her name, Just to curse her lack of response. He fell to his knees, slashed her ankles, Offered to carry the world for her, Just to make it his.
 Photo: Tolu Bamwo c/o nappy.co In the end, I let the judges of dust implicate the boat tailed Grackles, A highway coded up their long black tails; they did not matter to us. They were paper maché or a floating recess paper plane. He said, it was acceptable to hurt me. That grace will save us. That the tops of brownstones Are a repentance, like my blood. Myself, I never loved the world. The world was crystal-encrusted like New Hampshire in November. For your sins, father, mustachioed, you heaved sighs under shades of privilege. Today and tonight the marsh leveled peepers and balloon-jowl toads, were at your doorstop, like fairies. Somewhere out in the dark distance, boat tailed grackles gave in-human riffs. All that was mundane was marshaled in and became unfamiliar. |
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April 2019
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