Writing is an act of resistance
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Jannah is a single strand. My father is the complementary prognosticator strand.
By Abdulrazaq Salihu 3’ …
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Welcome to Writers Resist, the December 2023 Issue
It’s been a year that too often has left many of us without words—thankfully, not those who’ve made this issue possible. Their voices offer clarity, sorrow, hope, humor, and a reminder to embrace nature’s beauty. Stop for a moment, listen, and, if you like, let folks know what you think. Then, join us in the…
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Slowcookery
Poetry, Amy L. Bernstein, Combahee River Collective, Combahee River Raid, Harriet Tubman, Black feminismsBy Amy L. Bernstein “Because when it comes to truly explaining racial injustice in this country, the table should never be set quickly” – Nikole Hannah-Jones, “What is Owed,” New York Times Magazine, 2020 I stand on the far shore of the fast-moving Combahee River, opposite the Collective, afforded a distant glimpse through…
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The Whale
By Kerry Loughman never budged becalmed she was bleached by sun & beached on relentless rise of blue water liquid leeched from her eyes her orifices her great mouth agape her lungs did evaporate Climate-changed her wishes drowned in sand Kerry Loughman is a retired educator and photographer living in the Boston…
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Two Poems by Linda Parsons
How a Woman Becomes Herself When the neighbor’s weed tree drapes over the power lines and shades her garden, she contemplates going out by moonlight to dump salt on the roots—but that could backfire and flow instead into the garden, be its ruination. These good neighbors invite her over for fine smoked brisket and can’t…
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Disappearing Into the Flesh Market VII
By Mary Stebbins Taitt Artist’s statement: This painting, part of a series, is a resistance statement against the misuse of girls, boys, women, and others by flesh markets of prostitution, child pornography, and sex trafficking. The first painting in the series was a response in oils to an art installation by Tyree Guyton at Detroit’s Heidelberg…
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Wildness Unafraid
By Tim Murphy What if trees could talk? No. Of course they do. What if we could hear them speak just beneath our feet? What if birds of all feathers who lift the sky with song and frame it with flight told us what names to call them? What if we could simply bathe in…
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Suburban Median
By Myna Chang We see the body on the way to drop our kids off at school. It’s in the median at the Parkway stoplight. We don’t recognize what it is, at first. Understanding comes in pieces: leg, arm, slender foot. Naked, of course. We try to look away. But is it someone we…
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Wrong Rainbow
By L. Acadia Describing our droomhuis for Dutch class, my worksheet filled with my dream house’s garden: Hollyhocks, hydrangea higher than I, wrought iron table for morning coffee, serenading birds, frogs ringing a pond. My love wrote an interior my mind couldn’t fit: puppy-claw impervious tile floors, dormer bedroom, dinner-party primed kitchen, postprandial dancing…