There is no magic in healing. It starts with an equation
in the bone, a fusing of this to that. I will never have
nothing left to gain. If I’m born in August, if I’m born in June,
if I’m born on a Friday night, both lion and twin, each month
worthy, collapsed. If you strip me from my fur, will you at least
wear the winter for me? Breath implodes in the dark of your chest,
the moon petrified at the top of the night. Your father’s busted
gut, your father on the floor. It is a Friday now, your father’s
bursting bag in your mother’s stubborn palms. The beginning
of real life. There are only scars. There is never you. Just roll
me into bone or birth. Dissect you until I’m all that’s left.
We have no map to the front lines, no tip to the trenches
where sun bloats the earth and newborn shrubs cower.
I’m not afraid to stay with you—I’ll improvise.
Skin is skin no matter what’s buried in it.
Bailey Share Aizic
WHEN WE FINISH PLAYING COOTIE
He pulls my bug’s blue head off of its red
body and laughs until his breath runs out.
I flash to him laughing and knocking me
to the kitchen tile in a hug that tears the tissue
in my knee. The sudden smash of his skull
on my nose when I lean in for a kiss. The red
trails cut by fingernails across my face, white
scars across over-stretched skin. I put this
head and body back together and laugh
when my son tears it apart again.
When my Mother dragged me out
I wasn’t cold.
My breath was blued
By the light, seeping through
Trees, black as night
With all that nothing in-between,
Mother already grieving
For the other who drowned.
Tonight the storm broke,
Clouding the colour of
Mother’s necklace with the broken clasp.
The wind whittles your apologies
To blue bone beads
Small enough to swallow.
If you were anti-love then I
was annihilation, both
of our tubes frothing and held
by the big insulated tongs (use
two hands) next to the glistening
apparatus that created our
selves, one drop by precious
drop, then mixed with the long
and sterile wand and brought
to the boiling point of some
late-discovered element. Kept
in our polar wings
of the lab—crystalline for you
and mine untouchably molten—
we waited for the hour
of mutual immolation,
the clock’s steel hand
excited by the seconds.
after D. Scot Miller’s “Afrosurreal Manifesto”
i see black and creation disjointed
[it] sounds inner-outer,
pied rind and surreal heart.
prophet persona: see myself as a mask of shades,
make you act like smooth tongue, heartless heart
enter world, fool world, fluidity, the Invisible!
i See wonder, but no name for it.
a term creating world—seen it, named it.
mystical that art of “others” the root meaning
what was once collapsed. diaspora
that turns tomorrow’s-tongue to recall. the future?
the future past. a “future-past” called
genuflections, twists, “browning.”
this is a sign outcast. no means
all you yet-untouched in the museums, galleries.
kool blue lost legacies and cities, invisible invisible.
the words you are reading right now,
drifting a rowboat with no oars, invisible! wonders!
emerging origins, gods with new faces, new gods
with old faces. the lyrics emerging mosaic mix
with the visible world, the invisible world uncover
new-eye “madness” as visitations, magic. we take up the murk,
dreams called collage. we want to body life fluid,
filled mixing, melding, remnants of this apocalypse-smooth tongue
collapsed en masse, with blood and boots.
THE EXORCISM TRIPTYPCH
It is human nature to place certain meanings to objects, ideas, and moments in our lives in order to compartmentalize our histories and stories so that we continue living and moving forward. By contextualizing the female body, hair, feathers, and crows into surrealistic compositions, I am creating my own mythology through these corporeal re-imaginings. My body is the landscape where double self examinations occur through portraiture and self ruminations of the negative and positive aspects of hair and crows.