In Praise of Anesthesia

I will my alien legs onto the gurney. “You feel something?” asks a nurse, tapping the thin helmet of my belly.

Internal Memorandum

Stay tuned for next week’s memo, in which I’ll highlight name changes on the yellow spectrum.

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thing of the Woods

I see a story on my family's body, each gnarled branch a collective of punishment.

Two side-by-side images. On the left: a photo of the author, a Black woman with shoulder-length curly hair resting her right cheek on her slightly-closed hand. She wears a coral and white patterned tank and a yellow chartreuse scarf loosely over her shoulders. On the right: the Bluest Nude book cover, which is a photograph of a greyish white ceramic sculpture. The sculpture is a headless figure with breast and a broad, almost cubic bell bottom.

Q&A with Ama Codjoe, Author of The Bluest Nude

Suffering is non-negotiable, and I am grateful for how poem-making helps me live with and through what is painful and cherish what is joyful. With all of this in mind, I aim to craft poems that have blood in them, that give something to the reader.

A black barbell with one flat weight close to the camera reading "45 lbs."

homage to hip thrusts

During my workouts I imagine the possibility that my mother and I are almost the same person, the same spirit.

Black and white photo of a protestor holding up a sign that reads, "We will not be silenced"

Women’s History Month

I often compare gender to an occupation, because in many ways, it is such labor.