by Ayasha Ayurbe

My reputation was tainted by the pale faces that carried my children aboard ships years later. I loved at the center of every ocean simultaneously. I would greet my daughters and take their offerings and tears as sacrifices for what I offered—-love, protection, children and justice. Out of them, all justice is what the men aboard wooden ships most feared.

And so upon first meeting their leader, I presented myself as a huge octopus and spoke his language plain but his ego, far larger than my powers, could not fear what he couldn’t understand and he threw metal, black balls my and I turned them into pearls that fell back unto their ships and I laughed myself into a night-colored, white haired mermaid at my natural size (of which you cannot imagine) and laughed, then cried with joy at my actions or his audacity and my response.

I met new pale faced leaders who approached my domain and I was very busy, too busy to notice that my daughters had stopped coming with offerings and even blamed me for their misfortunes. I grew angry and started making their men impotent, just to see if they’d return but they didn’t. I slept one day closed my eyes and heard the sounds of my children, calling to me in all my languages and I watched them come to the front door of my home, lifeless. I would try so hard to control the waves but my powers didn’t work. I made the oceans treacherous but it did not stop my children from getting sicker or sinking so I stared as my children, their cargo and the pale peons stop in lands, small and large, where my redder children were sacrificed. How insulting for a creature to murder your children and feed them back to you?

My cry, the voices of women in torment from yesterday, today and tomorrow and the day after that. And for me to see it for 3 weeks for me but 3 millenia for you. So my mission is clear, I must restore justice to my daughters, my people ——— my babies. Their right to live in safety, in power and in unity at the SAME DAMN time.

But the chalky people, not the ones awakened by the blinding truth, they call me Ursula but to you my child, my name is Erzulie or Yemaya.

By sheena d.

hands unchained
bodies unstretched
songs unsung
tomorrows UNASSIGNED

four heads bow to the ground
looking for what will not, can not, grow here
looking for what will not, can not, sprout from dry ground and faint sun
one head witnesses what is on the way

distant trees thrive in cherry browns and meadowed southern greens
itchy nostrils full of smoke from what burned here
what caught fire centuries ago
twangy singing, fingers snapping, carried in the wind

distant trees brush and sway against tired grey clouds
as aged rocking church hands reach to touch some spirit

five bright brown black boys stand on dirt that softens under their feet
dirt working around brown black bugs
dirt working around severed roots

five bright brown black boys stand on dirt
their feet pushing against a soil that shifts
but won’t break
soil that won’t steady or undo or compromise

five bright brown black boys stand unarmed
unshirted over ancestors’ footprints
searching for for clues, wisdom, facts
searching for a trail that leads away
from this field to somewhere
they might find room to grow

by Savannah Bowen

They thought they were leaving a dead planet behind. They left and took their pollution out of our air and water, and land. They left and took with them their imperialism, and their prisons, and their exploitation economies. They left, believing that there was no more harvest to gather on this planet, and they spat upon us as they left, flinging dirt into our faces, leaving us to gag on the noxious fumes of their rocket engines. They left and they laughed at us, they left, and they pitied us, they left and shamed us because we were too poor or too black to go with them.

And you know what, baby? They died.

All them shiny Trojan horses galloped right into the stars and burned! The space stations, the convoys, the shuttles and the emergency escape pods, too! Not a single one of them capitalist-ass imperialist-ass, racist-ass, classist-ass, rude-ass mothafuckas is breathing right now!
People telling history over the Signal say those dummies went encroaching too far in an alien territory and got they asses lit up! They were going to spread the gospel; can you believe it? They wanted to bring Jesus Christ to the Milky Way! They left us thinking they were the blessed missionaries of the universe. They were nothing but a plague.

When it all went down your mama was just a lil corn kernel in my belly and all my family was gone. Fires in Canada, where your grandaddy Vesper come from, were pushing oceans of people south. The planet was purging. All the poison of the last world order needed alchemizing. And those of us still living had to contend with the healing of the earth.

Days after the fires erupted, an Earthquake came and destroyed our home in New York, and your grandfather died in the rubble right next to me. I called out to him through the dust, but I barely had enough air to breathe. My legs were crushed, and darkness was all I could see for over a day.

Then Patrice came, lifting sheetrock and letting sun into my sky once more. She was doing that for everybody and didn’t nobody understand how. People say she was possessed for seven days digging niggas out the rubble with her hands and healing them. She dragged me from the dust and fixed my leg with a tincture of Comfrey and rum. And even though she wasn’t really supposed to, she started your granddaddy’s heart back up. It wasn’t ever quite on-beat again, but he was the same sweet, strong man I loved, none of that zombie shit y’all tell. Patrice found his spirit and put it right back in his body almost like new. After that, we knew we had to follow her wherever she was going.

Your mama survived in my belly and that was the third miracle, after Patrice saving me and Vesper coming back to life. Of all the shit, that was the shit that scared me most. I know I’m s’posed to thank the gods that she survived and was healthy and allathat. But one day, the Signal reported the remains of thirty missing children discovered in Tallahassee. At the time we were in a safe house in the Florida Keys, a mansion with a sprawling lawn, waterfront access, and an Olympic sized swimming pool. I had never been to Florida in all my life, but there I was, locked in a bathroom having a breakdown like a Hollywood starlet, my body splayed across white marble floors. I refused to eat or drink. I cradled the taped-up radio in my arms like a newborn and prayed for three days that your mama would die.

On the third day Vesper took an axe to the door. Patrice coaxed a tea down my throat and stripped my body of its soiled clothes. They drew me a bath in the rich people’s abandoned tub and braided my hair into neat rows against my scalp. The three of us laid together in a giant bed, Vesper behind and Patrice in front, me and your mama safe between the two strongest people I know.

What humans called natural disaster was actually the technology of a planet fighting for survival. And we knew our only hope was to shut up, listen, and learn. To understand the pains of the earth and put our hands to the wounds as well. I was always a sensitive girl. You can laugh at that cuz you seen me kill and you seen me walk steady into danger. But to tell it true, I spent most of the revolution crying, baby. I spent most of it with my heart beating fast and my tears watering grounds where rivers could not reach.

by arkansawblk

Narrator: Danielle has been participating in a virtual writing workshop. Although she feels comfortable, she can’t stop the incessant voices in her head. The facilitator asks if anyone would like to share. Danielle checks in with herself to see how she feels.

Anxiety: WHY is everyone looking at me? Check your face, Danielle. You’re good, you’re good. Speak. Participate. I can’t. I’m just gonna be silent.

Criticism: That’s it. It’s official. Anxiety, you’ve lost it. Literally, NOBODY cares. You aren’t the center of the world. Fix your face, you look sad.

Depression: But I am sad and exhausted. I’m so drained from everyone, including myself. Maybe it’s just better if I don’t interact with anyone ever again.

Optimism: Guys…

Criticism: Shut up Optimism! No one wants to hear your hopeful speeches today. Save it for tomorrow. Or better yet, for Instagram haha, am I right guys? Plus being optimistic and hopeful is for children, this isn’t Imagination Land, this is The Real World.

Depression: Well, maybe we should listen to her. Honestly though, it doesn’t matter. I’m too tired to listen.

Anxiety: Let’s just click the “Leave Meeting” button and this will all be over.

Criticism: How has listening to Optimism made any of us better? All she does is plant false hope. Me, on the other hand, I improve us. I make us one step closer to perfection every minute. I’m the one who reads all the self-help books.

Anxiety: Our goal is perfection? If our goal is perfection then we definitely cannot participate.

Depression: Yeah, we probably shouldn’t volunteer.

Criticism: You guys get what I’m saying. I’ll keep critiquing and maybe one day in the distant future our work will be worth sharing, maybe.

Optimism: Guys!

Depression: Sorry Optimism. You aren’t being helpful. Didn’t you hear Criticism, we aren’t even close to being perfect. You’re just making things worse.

Optimism: Alright, that’s it. I’m calling our Higher Self; this is not working.

RING __________________ RING __________________ RING

Higher Self: Hello, Higher Self speaking.

Optimism: We need you.

Higher Self: I am on my way.

*Higher Self removes herself from her hammock in Imagination Land and travels to The Real World.

She observes Criticism attempting to create order and structure through the tools she learned from all those self-improvement books. However, instead of being encouraging, Criticism is making everyone feel like they aren’t good enough.

She observes Anxiety huddled in the corner, rocking back and forth. Anxiety is paralyzed with Real World fear. She holds onto them as if they are fact and cannot see that the fears are illusions The Real World uses to discourage Anxiety from trying new things.

She observes Depression who is pondering what life would be like if she just disappeared into the darkness. If she never returned to the light. If she completely removed herself from this realm and tried her luck in another.

After beholding the situation, Higher Self floats over to the intercom system, picks up the mic, and uses her index finger to press the lavender triangle button that reads “Reset”. When she presses the button a radiant, lavender light falls across the room and Higher Self’s voice reverberates throughout The Real World.

I am strong
I am love
I am enough
What I have to contribute is valuable
I am worthy to share my thoughts
I am kind to myself and others
I am complete whether I give of myself or not
I am at peace

*Peace appears the moment Higher Self says her name. *

Peace: Thank you, Higher Self. I can feel my strength again. I guess I got overwhelmed by the mental chaos conjured by Anxiety, Depression, and Criticism and fell asleep.

Higher Self: No problem. I am always here.

Peace: Hey, Optimism, you think we should volunteer to share our writing?

Optimism: That sounds like a really brave thing to do. This group is so supportive and loving.

Peace: You’re right. We came here to grow, so let’s do it!

*And as Higher Self floats back to her resting place in Imagination Land, Peace walks around The Real World and consoles Anxiety, Depression, and Criticism. She reminds them that their input is valuable, but without balance it will overload the system.*

Narrator: The facilitator asks again if anyone would like to share. Danielle hears the encouragement of Peace and Optimism. She ever so slightly raises her hand on the virtual screen, just enough to be noticed and just enough to maybe go unnoticed. She is chosen and she shares her peace. When she finishes, she receives love and affirmation from the other writers. Danielle beams with pride for overcoming those harmful voices in her head and relying on the helpful ones. Even if it was a journey that no one else could see.

by K. N. Giles

Number 1.
Take care of your brothers = 2 bags of $.25 chips for me, 1 for y’all –
It’s my money, so I get 2 bags.

Number 2.
“Ma, can I have…” = “How much you got on it?”

Number 3.
I like being fresh and getting my hair & nails done = I gotta get a job because Ma is not gone pay
for it.

Number 4.
“That girl knows what her paycheck is down to the penny.” = How your mother describes you
when people ask about her daughter’s relationship to money.

Number 5.
I like eats & drinks.
I like nice shit. Nothing cheap or at least not cheap looking.
I like fly shit.
I like to travel.
I like to chill.
I like to smoke good “refers” – plural like the old timers say.
I like art.
I like dark chocolate.
I like good coffee, quality coffee.
I like a nice, dark, smooth glass of red wine and good cheese.
I like fresh fruit.
I like sunshine.
I like lush green grass.
I like blue sky.
I like clean water.
I like when my skin glistens.
I like looking at pictures of David Banner and calling him by his real name, Lavell William Crump,
because it makes me feel like I know him.
I like nice shit.
I like fly shit.

Liking cost. And costing = money.
And not that green money, but that YOU money.
YOU gotta like YOU Black woman.
YOU gotta love YOU Black woman.
YOU gotta give YOURSELF permission to be human and ALL that comes with that.

So, I’m about that YOU money.
That good energy money.
That reciprocity money.
That I know my worth money.
That I know I’m putting good out into the universe money.
So, since I’m here today, I’ll keep striving for YOU and ME tomorrow.
Thank you Black woman.

by Momma-D

It was the first time ever with the man I thought I knew
a new introduction between us two.

I wrapped my head and my body too
in African cloth from the Homeland that I purchase brand new.

The overture to a profound technique
as he removed the cloth—that I wrapped so neat.

The maneuver, the tactics, his sexy ploy
as he touched me gingerly like a delicate toy.

My heart was pounding as I closed my eyes
as he unwrapped my head-wrap and to my surprise
he kissed my bare head down to my thighs.

What a Revelation, the explosion deep down inside
the feeling that I experienced brought tears to my eyes.

He held me tight and I could hear our two hearts beat
as we continued our dance between the sheets…

by Momma-D

It’s June in the year 2020. In March the entire face of the earth was hit with a World-Wide Pandemic, Schools in the United States had to be closed and children had to learn remotely. Bars and restaurants, theaters, libraries, churches even small business had to close their doors—Yes! we were forced to stay home and if we had to go out we had to wear a mask covering our nose and mouth. Hundreds and Thousands of people fell ill to this CoronaVirus and many lost their lives.

Strangely enough, police brutality; murder, destruction and death was on the rise again, and many Protestors took to the streets: The PROTEST: It wasn’t written it was demonstrated. It was done in retaliation—headed by groups who believed that the occurrences’ that took place were unjust.

As a wife; mother, foster-mother, grandmother and a mentor to teens I have always taught each of them Principles, Morals and Respect. I tell every one of them to “FIGHT” for what you believe in, Stand your ground, and never give up. I tell my young people learn your history, know who you are and where you come from and if an unjust action takes place or a bias incident occurs that you believe is morally wrong—You Have The Right To PROTEST—complain, declare that something is not correct. You have the right to express strong disapproval or disagreement with that unjust act. And, if you have to take to the streets in disapproval remember Non-Violence plays a high-note on getting the Truth Across.

PROTEST:
Be Powerful in the words you use.
Proclaim Protection—know Your Truth
Walk that Walk on Solid Ground and when you Take A Knee—
Raise your Fist and Be PROUD:
IN EVERY CITY AND IN EVERY STATE
KNOW—YOU ARE SOMEBODY
NO MATTER OF YOUR RACE …

by Chloé Dinae

You grew.
I didn’t understand the beauty.
I didn’t understand the oils that were needed to extend you
or, how I needed to cleanse the roots to release my pain, my soul.
I failed to listen to your strands—at times blinded by heat.
You attracted many suitors- some weak and some strong but they all became dead ends.
They leaked expectations from the scalp.
With maintenance I’d grow too.
Learning to nourish the depth,
becoming introspective to discover the patterns invested in you,
When I cut the ends, my ancestors dreams fell into my lap,
looking at you.
The very nature of the coils
were representative of my mind.
Overtime, some were heat shy, spring curls, waves swaying, fly away strands.
I wanted all of you—a representative of my lovers.
To show I lived my dreams,
I save your strands to show my vulnerability—
Not to please
but to invest in me.

by Charlene McNary

Black pekoe, mint, honey and a hint of floral essence wafted through the air hitting her nose just so. She inhaled the familiar scent and felt her shoulders gently drop. She had been unaware of the tension she carried in her body. She noticed the permanent crease in her forehead relax exactly midway between her eyebrows. Alyse was always amazed at how different her face looked when she un-furrowed her brow and released the crease in the bridge of her nose. Some women pay thousands to accomplish what her face does naturally once her body is relaxed. Therein lies the problem. Lately her face reflected a constant state of tension she could no longer hide.

Inhaling deeply with her eyes closed and feeling her diaphragm rise; she counted to five being careful to place her hand just so before releasing her breath ensuring she pushed as much air as possible from her diaphragm. She repeated the process five times before opening her eyes slowly. Reaching for the cup and taking a sip she could feel the warmth from her favorite tea as it moved throughout her body. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her gaze eventually settling upon the strands peeking out of her center part

“I know you’re worried and trying to calm yourself down. I see the stress in your eyes and the way you furrow your brow. I’d like to reassure you. But the truth is simply I’m worried too”

“Bobbi, I don’t know if I’d call it worry, at least that’s the last thing I want to call it. They told me not to worry, you know. How do you not worry about something like this?”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could make better. I just don’t know how”

“It’s not your fault, no need to be sorry. Truth is, I should have acted sooner. I keep wondering if in my delay I have lost too much time and as such will I now lose the fight”

“Sooner, later. Who knows? How could you have known? I didn’t even know. I really thought it was simple shedding, just a few strands that needed to leave. We were so comfortable hanging out and relaxing in our new twists that I really didn’t notice the first exodus.”

“Neither did I. I mean I noticed but I thought it was easily explained, the weather changing or perhaps menopause. Menopause, I swear it’s going to the be death of me. Who knew it came with so much loss?”

“Loss?!?! How so?”

“You lose so much and it’s so gradual that you don’t notice it until it feels way too late. For me, it feels like menopause normalized loss. I became so accustomed to losing that the sting no longer registered in my world. Until.”

“Until. Until when Alyse?”

“Until you. Until I started losing you, I simply chalked it up to menopause and went along with it. I didn’t like it. I hated it, but I heard that’s what should happen, you know, losing things. I always said if I didn’t have kids by 35 that I wouldn’t have any. When the blood stopped, it hurt, I felt the pain of never, but I wasn’t surprised. When my ability to cool my body took up and headed south, I wasn’t surprised. I wished it hadn’t happened, but I rolled with it. When the number crept up on the scale, I signed up for my first marathon to remind myself that I didn’t have to give in to menopause. And as more people got on my nerves, I told myself that some relationships needed to end anyway. So yeah, loss became normal but then you threw me a curve ball.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I had been able to stop the exodus.”

“Yeah, me too. Nevertheless, here we are. Waking up to losing you has been the hardest thing for me. I know they say it isn’t menopause, but I can’t stop thinking the menopause triggered the alopecia. It’s the only thing that has changed in my life, that and the crazy lady at the office but ding dong she’s gone.”

“Ha! Ding dong she’s gone.”

“Ding dong the witch is gone! You know Bobbi, I’m tired. I’m tired of loss. You’re the last thing I ever wanted to lose. I just can’t help wishing you’d stop leaving me.”