POSTS

Precious Arinze

I Dreamt I Saw Two Black Girls Kissing in Church

& i heard a door inside my chest heave open 
it sounded like a storm returning 
to nurse green the dryness 
the drought had abandoned here 
& this is the kind of narrative we will not need 
to soften later 
& i guess it is easier to stay alive 
when you are not holding an accusation 
that always comes unbidden 
carrying erotemes that only crave answers 
of burning flesh 
& when you are free to swallow a mouthful 
of whomever your body takes home 
to go looking for something sweet 
and soft to sink your teeth into 
& not wake up with bruises 
where your name should be 
maybe this communion of ungendered bodies 
is what it means to say grace 
& this is something no baptism can free us from 
but the girls are worshipping each other’s hands 
they are going home and taking me with them 
& outside 
a statue of Jesus is holding out his arms

 

Precious Arinze is a Nigerian poet, essayist, and author of the chapbook The Hope of Floating Has Carried Us So Far, selected by Chris Abani and Kwame Dawes for the New-Generation African Poets Series (African Poetry Book Fund), 2021. Precious Arinze is a Poetry Editor for OlongoAfrica and a Poetry Reader at Up The Staircase Quarterly. Their works have appeared in Brittle Paper, Lolwe, Arts and Africa, Agbowo, The Republic Journal, Boston Review, Electric Literature, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Exposition Review, and Berlin Quarterly, among others. Author photo by Dandelion Eghosa.

 

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Olúwatamílọ́re Ọ̀shọ́

Slutty Prayers

God is a woman
and she bends into a perfect arch,
           her fleshy altar nestled between sturdy-soft thighs.
My tongue finds worship,
spewing incantations of reverence.

This woman breathes life

into my being. Her body,
a pilgrimage.
I long to journey into her depths.

She draws her breath across my body
mapping out new cities, imprinting her soul
on mine, whispering love
into my skin.

She tells me “Open Sesame,”
and my legs part
like the Red Sea leading Israel to promise.

Her fingers drip honey as they find their place in me.

                  Here, our desire sings.
We make righteous sex,
baptizing ourselves in holy flame.

We burn and burn  until left basking
in our true form,  drinking in the sight
of each other,  our eyes leaking love. 

                       Here, we holy.
                   Here, we sex.
            Woman, loving woman.
      Clit to clit.
Breast to breast.

There is no abomination here. Only grace.

bisexual anxiety

On the days a man’s mouth
takes me to the heavens,
I question my sexuality.
I have had more male lovers than female. My best friend tells me that I could not love a man and a woman equally.
A man I loved yesterday told me I could not
be gay if I moaned his name in pleasure. I tell him to take his homophobia off my body.
On the days I imagine crafting a life with a man, guilt nibbles my mind.
Am I less queer for finding love in the arms of a man even though I also want to walk down the aisle with a woman?

 

Olúwatamílọ́re Ọ̀shọ́, Frontier XVII, is a writer, poet and creative director from Lagos, Nigeria. Her writings negotiate sensuality, familial dynamics and identity. Her works have been published/forthcoming in online literary mags namely The Roadrunner Review, Olney Magazine, ANMLY and elsewhere.

 

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Kei Vough Korede

Pelagial Affinity

The sun coruscates through  pellucid water.
In pelagic nearness, waves falter to our feet,

and you zest. 

You prance the littoral spread.
You, in a teal windbreaker, break the width 

of gales. 

You pick up conches, pick me up where I lie defying
belligerent glints of sun, and smother my face with

spontaneous kisses.

We raise the effervescent content of our glasses,
exchange our flip-flops in their resplendent hues.

I’m made possible by your perennial love;
that daunting extension of adherence.

In this coastal encounter,
the sea is sprawled endlessly before our existence—

we stand before it, until we suffice. 

 

Convalescence

We robbed the disease of its nefarious glory.
Our triumph was commemorated in ululation.

In the clamor of surviving, our eyes opened
and we sought to hide from the world.

Revelry in this dank now:

The night, femur-long.
Suds overwhelm the vitreous inventions

of man. Our voices levitate without
wings; and to what extent do we hold this zeal,

to deride the conviction of dawn? 

We chose to be in delirium.
Preferred our jejune plight.

The sex, good.
Better though, 

the staggering force of love’s righteous gravity.

 

Kei Vough Korede (he/they) is a bi/queer Nigerian poet. He has works published with Woodward Review, among others. Reach him on Twitter @KayVough.

 

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Bryan Okwesili

How to Go to God and Remain There

I am terrified at the moral apathy, the death of the heart, which is happening in my country. These people have deluded themselves for so long. They really don’t think I am human. I base this on their conduct, not on what they say. And this means that they have become, in themselves, moral monsters. —James Baldwin.

And this day is not such a different one, except for the heightened rage of the sun; except for the strangers in the street circling a body like vultures; except for their voices trying to name this body before knowing it, before killing it; this body; a kneeling boy, wearing the face of one who loves boys, who knows how to love boys; and these people know this face; they must peel it; must undo; how else to erase the error in a book; a tyre for his neck; a stone for his head; a fire to smoke him straight to God; an offering to purify, to cleanse, to take God’s hands and do His work; except they don’t become God; but monsters, intentional about sin; and they watch the boy burn; the boy, who searches their faces for what he has deprived these strangers of; their air? their happiness? their milk?;  the boy who, in the hell, is eager to go to God and remain there; and does; in a rising of grey smoke; and no one knows his name.

From my window, the whole madness is a movie scene; except I am an actor; and the burning boy a looming foreshadow; except I have a name, yet.

Originally published in Isele Magazine.

 

Bryan Okwesili is a Nigerian poet and storyteller. His works explore the interiority and tensions of queerness in a heteronormative culture in which he imagines a world of inclusivity. He is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee and a finalist for the Tupelo Quarterly Open Fiction Prize. His works appear in CRAFT, SLICE, SmokeLong Quarterly, Isele Magazine, Foglifter, Tupelo Quarterly, QWERTY, Brittle Paper, PANK, Litro Uk, and elsewhere. He is currently a student of law at the University of Calabar, Cross River State, Nigeria. You can connect with him on twitter @meet_bryan_.

 

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Animashaun Ameen

Oil and Water

We’ll knock your teeth 
out, bury you
in a wooden casket. 
You can’t be queer
and Moslem. No,
you can’t be. 
You shouldn’t be
We love you, Habibi,
but not tonight. Wait,
you shouldn’t sway 
that way. 
We’ll cut off your hands, and 
hand them over to you. 
Open your mouth— 
let’s pull the blackness out
of your tongue. Let’s gouge 
your eyes out and help you
wash them clean. 
Listen, Habibi, 
this is the only way. 
Hold your head still
underwater; let the Lord
do His will. Thirty lashes
on your back, twenty
on your palms. Let us 
draw out the darkness

inside of you. Let us stone 
the back of your head. 
This is the only way. 
We love you, Habibi, 
just not tonight. 
Close your eyes, let the water
wash over you. Please, 
just close your eyes, 
and let it happen.

 

Animashaun Ameen is a poet and essayist. His works have appeared/are forthcoming in Salamander Mag, Third Estate Mag, Roadrunner Review, Vast Chasm, and elsewhere, and he is the author of Calling a Spade. He lives and writes from Lagos, Nigeria. An oddball. A butterfly. He tweets @AmeenAnimashaun.

 

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Aderinsola

Big sallah, small sallah

Our eid celebrations unleashed things I grew to crave: happiness, ease, my parents’ attention and the ability to breathe—almost as though the surge in joyful emotions softened our often-stiff air, miraculously making it easier to take in. I needed more than anything to feel as air, both light and easily swayed, as I often felt as deeply rooted as century old trees. The change in atmosphere exaggerated how much of a shadow I was in my daily life. I only sparkled during Eid. My voice morphed into an entity of its own, I could feel a thrumming beneath my skin, an excitement in the way I walked, a hopefulness that this happiness might stay. My sibling and I fell into the habit of re-naming things, especially if we thought their names didn’t do their meanings enough justice. We decided for our Eid celebrations to be christened according to scale, which led to Big Sallah’s title being coined due to the extravagance it required; Small Sallah just required less. My family, along with my uncle’s and the other Muslim families, would litter our compound with rams when Big Sallah reared its costly head. I remember, one year, getting hurt by one of the rams I had befriended. I’d had an especially soft spot for this ram, but after that affair, I wanted so badly to taste it and revel in how good it tasted. 

Waking up to the smell of burning firewood on Eid morning was similar to drinking water after an indication of thirst. My mother would rush into our room, attempting to wake us while simultaneously checking things off in her head, my questions going unanswered because there was quite a lot to be done. My sibling and I would wake up excited, though tired from the previous night’s restlessness—sleep evading us due to our rollercoaster of emotions. We would carefully wear our newly-made lace over freshly done hair, slight headaches here and there until the tensions came undone. We would go into the compound-where the party was happening-in search of our dad, wait for his exclamations about how good we looked, try to get a glimpse of the food being cooked and rams being slaughtered. Sometimes there’s music going, money being gifted to children, people looking to buy more plastic chairs, cousins hoping to outdo the other, mothers and aunties setting up camp in kitchens as though Eid itself was war and not a celebration, drinks and the likes. The mosque affair mattered very little to me, I was particularly drawn to the ritual done before prayers. The necessity of water during this ritual provided a sense of calm, one whose root was severely unknown to me at the time. Washing my body with the intent to pray felt like heaven. I felt heaven reach out and attempt to smoothen my spikes, I knew this was not ordinary. I was not an especially religious child—I did not know any child who truly was—I had been injured quite early in life and began nurturing my anger from there on. But washing my body seemed to dull this anger. I would wash and feel rejuvenated, engaging a sense of calm with the ability to subdue a rupturing volcano. 

I was taught to rely solely on myself, which, I think, inspired my brand of rigidity. I relied on rigidity to keep me sane, to create a home far from risk, to keep its choking grip on my every step. In exchange for this, I promised to feed it bits of my soul, hoping to one day be consumed by it. In a funny way, I saw myself as Ariel giving her voice away to Ursula, rushing to give away parts of myself that scared me. This brand of rigidity manifested itself in every square-inch of my life, down to the unbreathable hold it had on my stomach. I did not allow myself explore my obvious queerness due to the same rigidity, I only allowed myself feel shame. I attached an ocean-load of shame to the essence of who I was, so frequently that breaking out of that mold cost me everything. Not until after this sharp realization did I consider the importance of community. Holding yourself when there is no longer a community to hold you? Incredibly heartbreaking does not begin to describe the smallest atom of such experience. I suppose that catalyzed the need for a greater power in my life. I had also begun asking myself shifting questions about the person I wanted to be, and the work it would require to protect myself from everything I did not. How I perceived love, the meaning of it, who I loved, why I loved them, what their love meant to me, how I received this love: was this how I wanted to receive love? Their love, in particular? The unnecessary reverence I regarded romantic love, and the roots of that. These shifting questions provided a foundation for even more shifting questions. Who my god is, signs they are my god, how I intend to pray to this god, how this god intends to converse with me, does this god love me? These are questions whose answers I am still collecting.

Beating myself into the path of kindness, especially after experiencing cruelty, has left bigger scars on my chest than the acts themselves. But if my orí strongly wants me on this path, who am I to deny my greatest self what it needs? To choose vulnerability, to want it so badly, even when impossible, even when the hurt feels so heavy my heart can’t function, even when I so badly want someone to feel a fraction of what I feel. Who else will show me tenderness? This world?

 

Aderinsola is a fiction/creative non-fiction writer who is fully immersed in a world of emotions.

 

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Chamomile Wheatley

Sunsimmer gratitude

for Isa Pickett

    Porch cactus  catches the sun 
and lights-up like a cellphone with good news

       Below the balcony  
the young family from Bethlehem
roasts salmon  over  charcoal
    Conversations   of warm weather  at-last  and
pinewood derbies             rise
                                  with zucchini smoke           
                                                carried away
                                  with cicada  ocean  song

       I-40 stirs a lazy tide
   even the willows  wave  safe morning

               I know holy neighbors!
                  Robins bawuing from brown sugar nests
           Brier Creek testing new directions  
                 the wild honey caps   ready to spread on toast       
and   You      
                                                          four-hundred miles away   picking figs  in a cemetery
                                                                        under the same trans-pride   sunset

                                           I have news!                   I started HRT! I caught this song in a jar!
                                                My hair   is wisteria
                                       and my body is sunsimmered chapel glass!
                                           Look through me from each direction
                                           That’s where god rests

 

Chamomile is a peripatetic word wrangler & a friend to small critters. Her work has also appeared in Five South.

 

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sterling-elizabeth arcadia

two texts

I.

both of my legs are bruised and it has me thinking about you. the blue-green-yellow-red hues. the rainbow between us. the rainbow between us

i think about your clumsy, about your 11-something cats & your late grandmother (like mine)

i think about the all-female brooklyn brass brand we saw, in prospect park. i think about when i got to meet your wife & didnt know what to say, so i commented on her haircut. how i miss you. how i love you

II.

hey bb, been thinking about you,
praying to bb trans gay jesus for you,
etc, etc

ive loved you longer than a year now
& still it stings, thinking about you
alone & cold, in that heartless chicago

so when i pray to bb trans gay jesus heres what i say:
may mathilda be safe. may mathilda be a bird.
may mathilda be called a faggot by her friends at the next transsexual brooklyn orgy

i would top a twink to see you stay warm this year

 

sterling-elizabeth arcadia (she/they) is a Best of the Net winning and Pushcart Prize nominated trans poet, diy tattooer, and lover of birds, cats, and her friends, living in Philadelphia. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in venues including Delicate Friend, HAD, New Delta Review, beestung, and Verse of April. Her debut chapbook, Heaven, Ekphrasis, is available now from Kith Books.

 

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Reyna Rosales

First Love in Moon Park

In a drunken daze words pour from my mouth of their beauty
of their gorgestness as the world’s rotation counters my own 
spin on the dance floor and I am trying to write 
of love because I know now that it exists

Planetarium shows us among the stars and our newest
journeys through telescopes and it’s silly how we look
up into space to compare it to home Pillars of Creation 
are elephant trunks or desert rocks but made of cosmos

Me and my love are made of stardust too we change
our silhouettes by our own command and
leave people wondering in awe of the constellations
of stories we write for our own bodies

I pour out my heart knowing they will live
because of the stars and because of my writings

 

Reyna Rosales is a Queer & Trans Filipinx writer born in the Philippines and raised in Los Angeles. Their work has appeared recently in Rituals from Marías at Sampaguitas and elsewhere. You can find her @tsismosx.

 

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