RogueAgent

ISSUE 94
CONTENTS

JANUARY 2023

Claire Benevento
Ava Morgan
Adamu Yahuza Abdullahi
Kate Wright
Jose Hernandez Diaz
Rebecca Macijeski
Shae Krispinsky
Aerik Francis
Frances Boyle
Amy Haddad

CONTRIBUTORS

Claire Benevento

SONNET FOR SHAPESHIFTING

Sexy days, I belt my waist and lust for lingerie I can’t afford:
a bra with snakes worked into the mesh. The prettiest
gold chain harness. It would drape like rain on my chest.
Days like this you can’t tell me my shape isn’t hourglass.
I’d live in a floral bustier, but cheap ones are always too loose
in the ribcage or too small in the bust, my titties crowded together.

I favorite muscle tanks and joggers. Here’s one decorated
with poppies, almost two femme to wear on broad-
shouldered, hands-in-pocket days when I don’t need everyone 
to know I curve, when I’d rather wear boxy and my eyelids
don’t shimmer. No one yells “hey, pretty girl!” from the bus stop.
Gowns are for people who shave their armpits—and me, if I’m
awake enough to hold shape. Tired days, I’d rather not open
the closet door and reach for front-close bras with lacey backs.

Ava Morgan

FROM THE BOTTOM OF THE MOSH PIT

First time? Flat headache.
The knuckle-drive of

my jaw ached for weeks from the

the ear-piercing wasn’t a hole punch but
a stretcher
slow-armed, extending. 

                                                Fuzz Box?

Spicy. She sneezes. I’ll admit it: sweet-gauged.
This fist-rapped cable cord. This wrist.

How chole-lapped I here? One spin

I was
                                                   was

black-stout dripping-shirt

Watch it man

whirl-wing on the adrenaline crunch

I re-watched LOTR this morning and tried out some new braids,
tried to molt into a mountain king.

Watch it, man

What-see?

dodged bottom-of-his-boot

god, this sloppy three-moon wolf shirt.

She set the tongs in bile, passed on a

I could hear the feathers bursting from my veins
liquid spirals in the grunt-nosed vulture cry
Goth bitch with the green-eyed snake-bite

How?

Never had a bandaid the dance couldn’t taste.
Never had a viking axe to replace

the gaze

Up-ing,

Up

to a beer-bellied stage
to a hillside circling with flames

rage, rage, fist-high pedal-duct, Say

n-o-o-ooooooowwww

 but here—when did my my become so pale?

Adamu Yahuza Abdullahi

WHAT I REMEMBER OF MY MOTHER

& like the theory of quantum mechanics—
I do not quite understand why the things
I want never want me. I once hold laughter
In my arms and it wilts between the spaces
left of my fingers. like, every part of me is
a sieve. I wear dead songs on my tongue.
names. bodies I only recognize by the tinkling
of bells shackling their breathe. Momma told
me about this space. & on that day there was
a thunderous storm gushing, receding into
waterfalls. I know my home is where mothers
bathe their sons with their tears. Where dreams
are unfinished poems waiting to be written.
the poets are sea corals enclosed in the
shells of grief. there is bag of grief knitting
my tongue. & this is how I wake up—
counting bodies jiggled betwixt
headlines like a child does to the alphabet
he just memorised. like some sweets, our
tongues know the taste of grief. I am sorry,
all I could recall are images with fainted
colours like a multicolored clothe smashed
in hypo solution. & that is exactly how we sit
& watch the rigours of peacelessness smash
our peace. my mother's waist tie has grown
to be home where she wrap her fears. every
mother sings when doing chores. mine grieve
distorted hymns: the lilt of our lineage. & in her
head tie, she shreds the shards of wounds she
never knew she began to bleed. she once drew
her self on a wall & mistook her shadow for an
Angel's wing. i did not blame her, what more
could an eye that sees mammoth bodies
winking inside each time it blinks possibly
see? every headline wakes our bud & then
we enter rooms we never know of its outlet.
I mean, here, we are havoc waiting to strike.
souls awaiting deaths. I wonder what will be
left to bed the ground when the flesh washes
away from the body like a dry leaf frailing in
the wind. & in this room, you care to enter?

Kate Wright

TODAY, A MAN BURNS SOMETHING BY MY DUMPSTER

my view obscured by wooden fence
designed to protect eyes from trash.
Bluish smoke rises as he stands
idle, leaning on a car I’m not sure
is his. Maybe he’s grilling, I wonder.
I’ve seen him before with his roommate
and cooler of beer, tossing a football—
and ah, here’s the other, arms full
of drinks and wrapped meats. I am jealous
of their companionship. Day 39 of self-isolation
and the interior of my apartment irks me.
I have taken to the balcony with a view
over the dumpster, these boys. The corgis
who live on the first floor across the lot
press their noses to screen door. The cum trees
are blooming—tiny white flowers in salty
sea-scented glory—and it makes my morning
solo runs feel like an unfair walk of shame—
no lover left, no morning aubade,
just endless return to an empty home—
dishes crusted in the sink.

Jose Hernandez Diaz

ODE TO MY EMILIANO ZAPATA TATTOO

I got you in my early twenties. It felt macho
yet romantic. Perhaps it could scare white people away. 

General Zapata was a martyr, yes, but he was no victim.
A man who arose to take arms against his oppressors.

Now, in my late 30’s, I look at you, Zapata tattoo,
and wonder what is next? Perhaps a skeleton? A rose?

A Mariachi? Perhaps a skeleton Mariachi, with a rose?
I chose to paint my body with Mexican and Chicano imagery  

to remember my roots, to venerate my culture,
because the body is the ultimate canvas,

tattoos like little poems in a priceless book.

Rebecca Macijeski

SELF PORTRAIT AS AN EAR

When my head is sleeping
and I’m tipped toward the sky,
I get to be myself.
I don’t have to report anything.
I can listen and listen
for the room’s dark galaxy.
Sometimes a cat settles her heft nearby.
Some nights a train takes twenty minutes
to escape the limits of what I know.
I like it when the long hollow
is mine alone. I can keep sounds
for what they are
without warping them into sense.
Sometimes the head rolls over.
Then it’s my sister’s turn
at the front of the array.
Hers is a different story.
When she shares with me what she hears
I don’t try to understand.
I won’t take her music
and make it my story.
The listening is enough.
The listening keeps us here,
keeps us tuned to the long hollow.
We store each arrival for what it is.
A bird. A floorboard.
A rumbling pipe. A shimmer of leaves.
The train’s whistle.
These aren’t ghosts.
These are what we know.

Shae Krispinsky

THE SONG NO ONE WANTS TO LISTEN TO YET EVERYONE MUST HEAR
After C.A. Conrad

Come back to the body with its blood whispers,
its barren limbs. You can’t feel anything
without thinking it, and the body doesn’t need
to think. It has its own agenda, it runs on its own,
an outsider artist needing no one’s approval. If
the body waited for accolades or applause
it would wither long before it got turned
to ash. Come back to the breath with its teeming
waves, its littoral rhythms. The creator is what
she creates. There is no divide between the art and
the artist. Any act is magic against death, and Death comes
so easily; it doesn’t sneak up. It looms large,
unblinking, hand outstretched, inviting us to tiptoe
through the tulips, a song no one wants to listen to
yet can’t stop hearing. This is no “Something.” This isn’t
even “Octopus’s Garden.” This is a beat kicking back,
a gentle thumping, echoing inside until it stops,
the record ended.

Aerik Francis

ANTI-ELEGY FOR BLACK FAT
The Black fat is not dying from being obese… The Black– the Black fat– is dying because of a
medical industrial complex committed to seeing fatness, Blackness, and Black fatness as death.
—Da’Shaun Harrison

I’ve desired my own assassination
for longer than I have imagined 

exalting           my Black         my Fat             body–
I am now cultivating love, though it’s not enough 

against all the fatal regimes spelled d-i-e
-t industrial complex to consume 

abundance into thanatological capital.
The desire to remove my Black fat– 

Socialized systemically. Ends are needed
beyond bodies. I want to love & live 

the Blackest parts–      Us–                  Ours–
the Fattest parts–         Us–                  Ours– 

Shamed to death– I feel & resist:
This is a politic. I want beyond 

fat necropolitical desire. I want
the end of this world– Badly.

Frances Boyle

SOLACE

The shape belies the story. The tickle
in your throat becomes a cough
that wracks the chest. Warmth escapes
the blankets, those blankets the only
thing holding you within yourself.

Picking at the window’s frost
with a fingernail, you trace
filigree, carve the scent of snow
into your body. Wanting fills
your mouth with warm wet taste.

Your hip clenches and your torso
tips askew, legs sudden staggered
posts. And the slip of one foot
over another, arch across instep,
becomes the only solace you crave.

Amy Haddad

WHAT TO DO WHEN YOU ARE NO LONGER IN REMISSION

Prepare for the worst   tangles or falls   always have a whistle    when you’re alone   
Watch your overhang   the bit that tells you how much   line you have left   get used
to seeing it  there it is now   Feel the load   novices rarely load well   feel deeply
what you can carry  Embrace solitude   rise early   sleep late   walk   whatever works  
Engage nature   with a minimum of tools   Lean into the current   plant your steps
upstream   if you lose your balance   the current will push you upright   Below the
surface   light behaves differently   account for refraction   distortion   reconstruct
your vision to perceive   what is important   Don’t waste valuable time   Seek the
shade   avoid unnecessary movement   do not run for cover   though tempting Team
up in deep water   with a buddy   lock arms   as you progress   across the river   
Know your limits   the harsher the path   the less traction you have   there is a point
of no return   anticipate that point    Plan your route downstream   look for obstacles 
when you lose your footing   what will you do   when you are swept away?

Issue 94 Contributors

Adamu Yahuza Abdullahi is a budding poet and a spoken word artist from Kwara State, Nigeria. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in journals/magazines. Some of which are but not limited to: Angel rust, Kalahari review, Arkorewrites, Konyashamsrumi, Arts Lounge, Teenlit journal, pine cone review. His poem “Catalogue of memories” has been nominated by Oneblackboylikethat review for the 2023 Best of the Net price by Sundress Publications. When not writing, he reads other poets and creatives.

Claire Benevento is a queer writer from Kirksville, Missouri. She is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Missouri-Kansas City, where she also teaches composition. She serves as a poetry editor for Flare Journal, and her poetry appears in Steam Ticket, Backchannels, Flare Journal, and Number One Magazine.

Frances Boyle is a Canadian writer living in Ottawa.  Her third poetry book, Openwork and Limestone was published in fall 2022. She is also the author of Tower, a Rapunzel-infused novella, and Seeking Shade, an award-winning short story collection. Her writing been selected for the Best Canadian Poetry series, and published internationally. Recent and forthcoming publications include work in Rust and Moth, JMWW, Grain Magazine and Parentheses Journal. Visit www.francesboyle.com and follow @francesboyle19.

Jose Hernandez Diaz is a 2017 NEA Poetry Fellow. He is the author of The Fire Eater (Texas Review Press, 2020) and Bad Mexican, Bad American (Acre Books, 2024). His work appears in The American Poetry Review, Conduit, Huizache, Iowa Review, Poetry, The Southern Review, The Yale Review, and in The Best American Nonrequired Reading. He teaches creative writing for various organizations including Beyond Baroque, Litro Magazine, The Writer’s Center in DC, and elsewhere. He can be found online at www.josehernandezdiaz.com.

Aerik Francis is a Queer Black & Latinx poet and teaching artist based in Denver, Colorado, USA. They have poetry published widely, links of which may be found at their website phaentompoet.com . Find them on social media @phaentompoet.

Amy Haddad is a poet, nurse, and ethicist. Her poetry has been published in the American Journal of Nursing, Janus Head, Journal of Medical Humanities, Touch, Bellevue Literary Review, Aji, DASH, Oberon Literary Journal, Abandoned Mine and several anthologies. Her chapbook, The Geography of Kitchens, was published by Finishing Line Press, 2021 and her first poetry collection, An Otherwise Healthy Woman, was published by Backwaters Press, an imprint of the University of Nebraska Press, 2022. Visit www.amyhaddadpoetry.com.

Shae Krispinsky lives in Tampa, FL, where she fronts the band, Navin Avenue, whose sound she describes as Southern Gothic 70s-arena indie rock with a pop Americana twist. Her fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry have appeared in Connotation Press, Thought Catalog, The Dillydoun Review, Vending Machine Press, Sybil Journal and more. She is currently working on her band's second album and a novel.

Rebecca Macijeski holds a PhD from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, and an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Nominee, her poems have appeared in The Missouri Review, Poet Lore, Barrow Street, Nimrod, The Journal, Sycamore Review, and many others. Rebecca teaches in and coordinates the Creative Writing Program at Northwestern State University in Natchitoches, Louisiana. Her chapbook, Autobiography, came out with Split Rock Press in 2022.

Ava Morgan is studying English at the University of Colorado, Boulder. Her work has appeared in the University of Colorado Honors Journal and Green Ink Poetry's. When not found hunched over a book, they enjoy knitting, exploring dirt trails, and listening to music as loud as possible. 

Kate Wright received her BA and MA in English from Penn State and her MFA in Creative Writing and Environment from Iowa State. She is currently a PhD student in Creative Writing at the University of Tennessee. Kate's work has appeared in or is forthcoming from The Maine Review, Ghost City Review, Okay Donkey, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Rogue Agent, and elsewhere. You can find her on Twitter @KateWrightPoet.