Deforestation isn’t just the cutting down of trees. It’s the cutting down of black women’s self esteem. It’s when you turn us into pretty furniture to sit on. Make textbooks out of our bodies And then use our broken spines to bind them It’s when you pull us out of the earth We were so…
Dear Daughter
Dear Daughter I have never loved myself enough To laugh through the rough times I have seen different colors Fading in the beauty of the flowers I have woken up to different nightmares Only to calm down through the power of a Prayer I know of those days when I needed someone beside me to…
Alith Cyer Mayar
Alith Cyer Mayar is a writer, poem and activist. She was born in 1997 in Khartoum, Sudan, and grew up in different places as Uganda and South Sudan. She attendend the Sudan Academy for Medical and Technological Studies training as a nurse. During that time, she volunteered for different hospitals and clinics. In the meanwhile…
Jean Rhys
I think of the divided self of Jean Rhys in Dominica, her invisible self in London, and the depth, scope, scale of her writing: What was achievable in her lifetime is achievable now, the winter’s tale of Jean Rhys, and her tragedy of errors, of losing a child, and her failed marriages. She was a…
When is it right to rape a woman
Why? Silenced cries Sealed behind doors of blame Her breasts linger out Like ripe mangoes Sending me invitations Her skirt barely covered her thighs Made my blood hot I said, “Yes, that’s why it was right” She wanted the piece of my manhood into her Thrusting thrusting When is it right to rape a woman…
Poetra Ama Asantewa Diaka
Poetra Ama Asantewa Diaka is as a young and combative Ghanaian artist, living between the African country and the US. She doesn’t want to be boxed into the definition of “poet” or “writer” – she rather describes herself as a “storyteller“, since the term “encompasses all the ways she can tell a story” – as…
Y’All Hear Me?
I know I will die on a cold winter morning. Winter withers me so it’s only fair that I believe my well worn weathered body Will wilt on such a day. Wrap me well, warmly. It’s the least you can do for a tropical wench Who died in a witheringly cold world. I will require…
Looking Forward
Hanging on small dreams the year folds itself in the tired sunset like a mimosa leaf It murmurs and screams new names old promises lies retold at the same place where songs are set on the loose in unplumbed laughter and tears We lay wreaths of frustration with no other option but to see hope…