Poetry – Page 5 – Writers Resist

Prolapse

By Tara Campbell

The uterus is tired.

The uterus is sorry
but it can’t seem to stay
in one place anymore,
which isn’t surprising
considering how often
it’s been poked
and prodded
and pricked
by congressmen’s pens.

The uterus would like
to get in a word of its own,
just one, even edgewise
just one goddamn word.

The uterus wishes
it could remember the words
to that song you sang
when you didn’t have to worry
about your uterus all the time,
when you didn’t have to be
so goddamn vigilant,
didn’t have to keep twisting
and turning away from men
shoving laws into it
edgewise.

The uterus is tired
so very tired.

The uterus would like
just one goddamn moment
to itself. The uterus just wants
to be. The uterus is sorry
it can’t give you that.
The uterus remembers when
it was barely aware of itself
which sounds like a contradiction
but was merely a state of grace.

The uterus is small and pink
and lovely and valued
and sacred and blessed.

But no, the uterus doesn’t believe
its own press. . .
well, it didn’t. . .
well, it shouldn’t have, and now
the uterus is continually disappointed
to find it is neither valued
nor sacred
nor blessed
nor even safe.

The uterus is tired
so goddamn tired.

The uterus is sorry it’s letting you down
because now it’s letting itself down
slowly, uncomfortably—
this is called “prolapse”
and the uterus wants you to know
this is not your fault either,
and it would have told you
everything sooner, but the truth
just gets the uterus bullied,
harassed, and threatened with rape
for upsetting men
(and, when the truth
is too educational,
it just gets the uterus kicked
off the socials for “porn”).

Some days the uterus feels philosophical,
and some days the uterus feels angry—
who are we kidding,
most days the uterus feels angry
if not for itself
then on behalf of other uteruses
who are told they’re overreacting
to getting bullied,
harassed, and threatened with rape
for upsetting men.

The uterus is often depressed
but today the uterus is simply tired
the uterus needs a break
to forget how everyone
is always talking about it
even when it’s not in the room—
especially when it’s not in the room.

The uterus is tired,
and the uterus is tired
of being asked why it’s tired.
The uterus no longer wishes
to be interrogated.

The uterus just needs a little time
a little goddamn time
to itself, and who can blame it
for feeling heavy
for wanting to slide
just a little bit lower
and rest after everything
it’s had to endure.

The uterus simply wants to sit
in the warm and the dark,
mind its own business
and quietly sink, baptized
in silence, blessed
finally
with one goddamn
moment of
peace.

Tara Campbell is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, fiction co-editor at Barrelhouse, and graduate of American University’s MFA in Creative Writing. Her publication credits include SmokeLong Quarterly, Masters Review, Wigleaf, CRAFT Literary, and Writers Resist. She’s the author of a novel and four multi-genre collections including her newest, Cabinet of Wrath: A Doll Collection. She teaches writing at venues such as American University, Johns Hopkins University, the Writer’s Center, Catapult, and the National Gallery of Art.

Photo credit: Ittmust via a Creative Commons license.

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hegemony: footnotes in future history

By Yvonne Patterson

bookended with blood, The Reaving Era births in the conflagration
of Origin Crusades, subjugates the populace and banishes science,
ending in funeral pyres of anti-pogrom riots: The Reclamation Years.

closing scenes, unlike the exuberance of symphonic finales, manifest
in discordant notes. bright allegros falter. sonorous glissades collapse
in coarse staccato. dark notation seeps into public view. audience exits.

the Great Court assumes sombre hues: meticulously carved mahogany
chairs line the High Bench in a barren row. the antique red carpet, woven
with faded battle sigils, colloquially known as the river of blood, stagnates.

only stalwart readers remain, squinting, hunched over Library manuscripts
chained to tables. the edifice, deeply veined with cracks, blackened
with ingrained dirt, brittled with fetid breath of centuries, suffocates.

fables of self-proclaimed hegemony, echoing former eminence, lie
embalmed in stained glass windows. glass shards, encrusted with grime,
colours leeched by vicissitudes of relevance, obscure daylight, mute hubris.

Yvonne Patterson is New Zealand born, living in Perth Western Australia, proving that kiwis do fly. She enjoys the freedom of poetry after a career in human services in clinical psychology and policy in mental health, disability, community and justice areas and holds an M.Psych (Clin) and MBA from UWA. Her poetry explores borders and fault lines around us as human beings living within social and political contexts. It asks questions about the ethics of how we behave towards each other and our environment. It draws from career experience and personal interests in arts, science, politics and especially social justice and equity. She has poems published in Anthologies and Journals including Not Very Quiet, Grieve Anthology, Writers Resist, Creatrix, the Australian Rationalist Journal.

Photo credit: Marco Orazi via a Creative Commons license.

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On Hearing of Russian Soldiers Booby-Trapping Dead Ukrainian Civilians with Land Mines

By Karen Kilcup

How do they do it—
lift a heavy head
and place the bomb
beneath an ear? Slide
the metal disc under
a shoulder or thigh?
Or worse: do they slice
the swollen
long-dead chest, flies
fluttering, the stink
unbearable, nearly?
Do they carve
a red-rimmed cavity
large enough to implant
the device, which mimics
a hockey puck, a nippled breast?
How could they tuck it in?
How could they close the
hole, back away,
hope for the best?

A teacher and writer for more than forty years, Karen Kilcup is the Elizabeth Rosenthal Professor of American Literature, Environmental & Sustainability Studies, and Women’s, Gender, & Sexuality Studies at UNC Greensboro. She feels fortunate to work with many students of color, first-generation students, and LGBTQI+ students at this Minority-Serving Institution. Their courage and imagination inspire her and give her hope. Her forthcoming book, winner of the 2021 Winter Goose Poetry Prize, is titled The Art of Restoration.

Photo credit: Chi Wai Un via a Creative Commons license.

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Duplex with Gun

By Dotty LeMieux

The gun tucked neatly in the large man’s waist
I avoid his stare, move slowly, lock the door

I move slowly out the door
Cap pistol held at the ready

The gun moves out in the large man’s hand
Children run fast across the lawn

I cross the lawn going pop pop pop
Children scream and then they drop

Children scream, I watch them drop
One by one, as the big man shoots

The children laugh, they jump up, shoot back
Harmless popping under the sun

The popping stops, the sun is gone
The gun tucked back in the large man’s waist.

Dotty LeMieux is the author of four chapbooks, Five Angels, Five Trees Press; Let Us Not Blame Foolish Women, Tombouctou Books; The Land, Smithereens Press, and most recently Henceforth I Ask Not Good Fortune, Finishing Line Press. A new chapbook is forthcoming from Main Street Rag, likely to appear in 2023. In the late 1970s to mid-1980s, she edited the eclectic literary and art journal Turkey Buzzard Review in the poetic haven of Bolinas, California. Her work has appeared in numerous print and online journals and anthologies, including Writers Resist. Dotty lives with her husband and two aging dogs in Northern California, where she practices environmental law and helps elect progressive candidates to office. You may read more at her blog.

The photograph, “Halloween at Gun World, Burbank,” is by Stephen Sossaman, a writer living in Burbank, California. His primary resistance work is within the peace movement.

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just-ice

By Samy S. Swayd

don’t drink from this dripping
cracked cup, for it’s my own heart—
my beats poured into words for broken
lines, making this page perplexing
and pale.

but if you take a taste, you must sail with
a deep breath and an active mind, and paint
a spirited sign to remind you of Thoreau’s
tender daring triplet daughters—
“simplicity, simplicity, simplicity.”

unlike the daughters’ times, today’s
world is complex and keeps birthing
busy people, or people with big blind
spots, causing stable slices of life to slide
back into the deepest, darkest ends.

only sensible sailors see
the ice silencing
the just
in the name of justice.

as for the i, me, and myself—three wide eyes,
on Monday, we weep and wail

watching caskets of kids
and baskets of gun-shells
piled in schoolyards’ corners.

on Tuesday, we whistle with tears

seeing bees and birds, with
chemicals-washed wings, seeking
sustenance and safe landings.

on Wednesday, we witness or overhear

the same simulated politics—
tuning down voters’ intellects
and pruning people’s primary rights.

and then it’s all over again, like the rain,

not of America’s Alaska,
but of India’s Meghalaya.

so, what are we to do, besides being mindful?
turtle-talk our minds to articulate

the many similar unfolding trends?

circle-walk our hearts to remain humming—

despite the Court’s “daggers” and bites?

quick-axe the frightening forecasts

and the long-term side-effects?

or book a room inside our heads

and ask denial for a dance?

Samy S. Swayd is a retired adjunct faculty-researcher in religious studies, who has taught in a few Southern California universities, mostly at San Diego State University. His courses included American religious diversity, spirituality and the environment, and comparative mysticism. After a decade long career in administration, he then earned initial degrees from the University of Washington, Seattle, and a Ph.D. from UCLA. The present selection is from a book manuscript in progress on spirituality and goodness.

Photo credit: Liz West via a Creative Commons license.

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Ode to My Reflection in the Mirror (on just one day)

By Kathy Kremins

“I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief.” – C.S. Lewis

We are better than this No, we are this Always have been

Columbus mission schools Tulsa Race Massacre Charlottesville
La Operacion children in cages smallpox pipelines voter suppression

We are better than this

Michael Brown Vieques ICE Indian Removal Act fracking Jim Crow
Breonna Taylor Ponce Massacre MAGA Trail of Tears lynching

No, we are this

16th St. Baptist Church bombing Trayvon Martin Hurricane Maria
Trump California Gold Rush slavery Emmett Till Elijah McClain

Always have been

Japanese internment camps Proud Boys Wounded Knee Ku Klux Klan
Charleston church shooting Tuskegee experiment eugenics Brett Kavanaugh

We are better than this No, we have never been

Kathy Kremins (she/her) is a Newark, N.J., native of Irish-Catholic immigrant parents and a retired public school teacher and coach. Her poetry chapbook, Undressing the World, was published by Finishing Line Press (2022). Kathy’s recent work appears in Gallery Affero’s ongoing Poem Booth Project: Make Me Want to Holler, Drunk Monkeys, Digging Through the Fat, Limp Wrist Magazine, Platform Review, Paterson Literary Review, Soup Can Magazine, The Night Heron Barks, Stay Salty; Life in the Garden State Anthology, Stillwater Review, Lavender Review, and Divine Feminist: An Anthology of Poetry & Art By Womxn and Non-Binary Folx, and other publications.

Photo credit: Cathy Baird via a Creative Commons license.

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Hollow

By William Palmer

What happened January 6
was forgettably minor,
the most popular Fox host
claimed on June 9, the first night
of the House Select Committee’s Report,

so forgettably minor
he did not allow any
commercials during his show,
decreasing the chances
viewers might stray,

or might consider the view
that what had happened was
unforgettably major

and that the host
was therefore
lying

and that when they hear him
claim January 6 was not
an insurrection but simply
vandalism, they might
question what he says
in the future

and hear the thump
of his hollow heart.

William Palmer’s poetry has appeared recently in Cold Mountain Review, J Journal, One Art, On the Seawall, and Poetry East. He has published two chapbooks: A String of Blue Lights, and Humble. A retired professor of English at Alma College, he lives in Traverse City, Michigan.

Photo credit: John Spade via a Creative Commons license.

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Love Songs for End Times

By Zoë Fay-Stindt

I sing to
the green anole
in a made-up
lizard language—
fiddling tongue,
whirlwinds
and whistle-
clucks.
He curves his neck,
ear hole craned
to my porch perch.
He pinks
his bubble-throat.
For years, I saw
devil horns peeking
from each human
head. Yes,
the chemical,
the highway framed
with fields
and fields
of low metal
chicken farms,
bouncing off death
in the sun. Yes,
the river
nearly evaporated.
But on all those
superfund sites,
someone—
no, a people
—are planting
black ash trees.
Sweetgrass
grows thicker
from our harvesting
hands. Reader,
it’s not all gone up
in flames.
I say this
for you
and for me.
On a postcard
taped to my wall,
a globe as deep
pink as the lizard’s
puffed throat:
le soleil
ne se couche pas.
And it’s true:
the sun never sets.

Zoë Fay-Stindt (she/Z/they) is a queer, bicontinental poet with roots in both the French and American South. Their work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, featured or forthcoming in places such as RHINO, Muzzle, and Ninth Letter, and gathered into a chapbook, Bird Body, winner of Cordella Press’ inaugural Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Prize. She lives in Ames, Iowa, where she is an MFA candidate at Iowa State University, award-winning teacher, and co-managing editor for the environmental writing journal, Flyway.

Photo credit: Green anole image by Matthew Paulson via a Creative Commons license.

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Predators

By Laura Grace Weldon

If a grizzly wanders into your social media
don’t make eye contact or sudden moves.
Abandon the sandwich you were eating, leave
the small square of chocolate you saved for last.

Sharks often appear in parking garages
silent, stealthy, even as you confine
your blood’s scent under a coat pulled tight,
hurry your steps, summon your car’s refuge.

You’re warned away from boa constrictors
although their natural habitat is your manager’s office,
the statehouse, every tightly coiled corporation
crushing you bit by bit.

Predators often smile, extend a hand, act polite.
Beware, the trap may be ready to snap.
Expect the hurt, the trick, the vicious threat,
the unholy fury when you try to walk away.

Laura Grace Weldon served as Ohio’s 2019 Poet of the Year and is the author of four books. She works as a book editor, teaches writing workshops, and maxes out her library card each week. Connect with her at lauragraceweldon.com.

Illustration credit: 1906 illustration of a corporate predator from Arena Magazine, Volume 35, in the public domain.

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Velocity Squared

By Flavian Mark Lupinetti

when the gun smoke clears
and the EMTs bring the bodies to my ER
and I ask why they bothered and they say
we need someone to pronounce them most
times I say you pronounced them just fine
but today I can’t bear to make that joke
because these aren’t so much bodies as
they are chunks of protoplasm subordinated
to the law of physics that dictates force
equals mass over two times velocity squared

when the gun smoke clears
I reflect how clever of Eugene Stoner
who shrewdly designed his AR-15
to fire rounds of a petite .223 caliber
but to propel them at 3200 feet per
second because how else to
penetrate steel plate at 500 yards or
disarticulate a leg from the pelvis
with a flesh wound below the knee
unless you rely on velocity squared

when the gun smoke clears
it still amazes me that these
headless corpses and these
exploded chests each resulted
from a single shot yet it makes
perfect sense mathematically
if you want to create an exit wound
the size of an orange with a bullet
smaller than your Bic pen
you need that velocity squared

Flavian Mark Lupinetti, a poet, fiction writer, and cardiac surgeon, received his MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. His work has appeared in About Place, Barrelhouse, Bellevue Literary Review, Briar Cliff Review, Cutthroat, Sport Literate, and ZYZZYVA. Mark lives in New Mexico.

Image credit: Jasper Nance via a Creative Commons license.

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Oratorio of Arrival

By Dia Calhoun

for Ukraine, 2022

Because the woman hugs a green glass bottle
yellow-wicked, and waits
by the fabric store where she once bought
the blue wool for her coat,
the scarlet gingham for the kitchen window,
coral flannel to snuggle her baby
somewhere now on the pouring road to Poland—

Veni Magna Spirita

Because the composer holds his index finger,
limber from years of black piano keys,
on the trigger of an AK-47,
a melody in B minor playing in his head—

Veni Magna Spirita

Because the music is louder, the blue brighter
than the tanks now grinding down the street—

Veni Magna Spirita

Because their eyes meet
because she lights the torch
because he pulls the trigger
singing his greatest opus—Fuck you, bastard!
because she runs out, blue coat whirling,
and throws—

Veni Magna Spirita

Crossing a different border, their baby looks up.

Dia Calhoun is the author of seven young adult novels, including two verse novels, After the River the Sun and Eva of the Farm (Atheneum, 2013, 2012). She won the Mythopoeic Fantasy Award for Children’s Literature. Her poems have appeared in The EcoTheo Review and MORIA Literary Magazine. An article on poetry craft, co-authored with Deborah Bacharach, is forthcoming in the Writer’s Chronicle. Calhoun is a co-founder of readergirlz, recipient of The National Book Foundation Innovations in Reading Prize. She has taught at Seattle University, Stony Brook University, and The Cornish College. Learn more at diacalhoun.com.

Image credits: The compilation is by our own Debbie Hall, poetry editor and author, and the flag image is by Nataliya Smirnova on Unsplash.

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Tribute

By Eric Abalajon

My coffee tries to push back the basement chill
crawling up my legs, as I read a friend’s message.
I want to describe to you my table, Mayamor.

I remember your poem where you simply
list the towns won over by,
and sustaining, the movement.

It was, however, a security issue to publish it
in any mainstream venue, even a college folio
as it could be used as a blueprint for retaliation.

Safe to assume in this protracted fight,
our enemies read our poems as well.
The piece is an interesting rejoinder to
the image of a subversive poet, one not writing
witty metaphors against tyrants
but labors in naming of an emerging realm.

I would like to imagine, it was drafted
in folded cigarette packs during breaks
from long treks where you were
embracing fauna, seldom
acknowledged allies to armed encounters.

Another thorn of living in the
other side of the world is
the unease waking up to tributes for you.

Evenings is when we grieve our martyrs,
but I get to feel your weight of your life
on my chest, like Mount Napulak, in broad daylight.

Eric Abalajon is currently a lecturer at the University of the Philippines Visayas, Iloilo. His works have appeared in Ani, Katitikan: Literary Journal of the Philippine South, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, The Tiger Moth Review, and elsewhere. Recently his poems are included in the collections Sobbing in Seafood City (Sampaguita Press, 2022) and Footprints: An Anthology of New Ecopoetry (Broken Sleep Books, 2022). He lives near Iloilo City. You can find him on Twitter @JLaneria and on Instagram @jacob_laneria.

Image credit: “Cemetery of San Joaquin,” Iloilo, Philippines, by EdseastresD600, licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0.

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Secrets in the Gazebo

By Penny Perry

For my Aunt Leona Heyert Tarleton
who died at age 33

We are looking at the mockingbird
in the lemon tree. This is the first day
of my cousin’s summer visit.
I wriggle closer to her.
“I know how my mother died,”
my cousin whispers.
The gazebo is the place for secrets.

My Aunt Leona was almost famous.
She wrote plays that were on Broadway,
did crossword puzzles in ink. On a cold
spring day when silly girls wore sundresses
and shivered, Aunt Leona wore a smart
wool suit and pinned a spring violet
on her lapel.

Wendy’s mother died when Wendy
was only seven months old.

My cousin squints at the sun shooting
off the adobe tile roof. This is the first day
of her summer visit.
The jasmine smells sweet. She is thirteen.
I am eleven.

“She had an abortion,” Wendy says.
Her eyes are bright. She loves telling me
things I’m not supposed to know.

“A-bor-tion,” I repeat. Grandpa taught us
to sound out long words.

Grandma calls my cousin an orphan
even though she has a father.
“My mother didn’t want to have a second
baby so soon.”
“A baby?”
“It wasn’t a baby.
Your mother drove her to the bad doctor.”

“She wouldn’t do that.”
“But she did.”
I blot my wet face with my sleeve.
The excitement has left my cousin’s eyes.

Now I know why sometimes Mother
locks the bathroom door, turns the water
on full blast. She thinks I don’t hear her cries.

Wendy has long legs and her feet
touch the ground. My legs dangle
and the tie on the right sneaker has come
undone.

A seven time Pushcart nominee, Penny Perry has published a poetry collection, Santa Monica Disposal and Salvage (Garden Oak Press). Her novel Selling Pencils and Charlie, also from Garden Oak Press, was a finalist in the San Diego Book Awards in 2021. Her new poetry collection, Woman with Newspaper Shoes, was published June 2022 by Garden Oak Press.

Photo credit: “Polite Notice on Studded Door” is by Morning-meadow Jones, an American junior high school dropout, who later went on to realize her full potential and drop out of college too. She is a mother, migrant, and multi-media creative, practicing all manner of arts from her home in Wales, UK. She recently launched her writing career at the age of 51. Foolow her on Twitter at @Morning_meadowJ.

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Feeding the Goldfish

By René Marzuk

We walk to the edge of the pond at the far end
of the backyard—a pond dirty and small, slightly bigger
than a bathtub—filled with plants and fish carefully chosen
for their ability to survive off each other. “An ecosystem,”
you offer.

A grubby Eden. Colored shapes appear
and disappear within the murky waters, like spilled glass
marbles or ghosts drawn in sfumato, dodging our gifts.

Each crumb is an excess to be pondered. Kindness,
many a time, finds its way into a contract.
“How much, just how much exactly,
will this miracle cost us?”

René Marzuk is a poetry and prose editor at Writers Resist.

After completing a Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro, Rene is on the path to finish his English MA at the same institution and is already considering his next steps. Accidentally born in Ukraine to Cuban parents, he grew up in Havana, Cuba, and migrated to the United States as an adult.

He is currently a contributing editor of The Envious Lobster, a collection of nineteenth-century American children’s nature writing, where he focuses on rescuing the works of non-white and child authors. Overall, his research interests include Modern American literature and literary-cultural intertextuality, children’s literature, cultural studies, semiotics, code-switching practices, and articulation of marginal identities in literary works, among others.

Both inside and outside of academia, Rene has worn and continues to wear many hats. As of right now, he writes poetry, runs, takes pictures, and dabbles in drawing and illustration. He lives in High Point, North Carolina.

Photo credit: Image by Matt Artz on Unsplash.

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Slave Cemetery

By Elizabeth Spencer Spragins

anguish overflows
levees lined with unbleached bones—
a channeled fury
gathers silt of centuries
and the river roars their names

Elizabeth Spencer Spragins is a fiber artist, writer, and poet who taught in North Carolina community colleges for more than a decade before returning to her home state of Virginia. Her work has appeared in 80-plus journals and anthologies in 11 countries. She is the author of three original poetry collections: Waltzing with Water and With No Bridle for the Breeze (Shanti Arts Publishing) and The Language of Bones (Kelsay Books). Visit her website.

Photograph by Gregory Monk via a Creative Commons license.

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Body Before Extinction

By Emily Hockaday

I sing to the water and lower my only child
into the foam, wiggling toes first. I think about
all the species the ocean held
that I don’t know the names of
that have gone extinct this past year
and focus on the sound of the waves
and all the metaphors
that the tide could cover.

I have walked this beach
and pulled balloons, broken bottles,
cracked plastic, and wristwatches
from the surf and dunes
without seeing another person
for miles. I listen for the wind
through the beach grass and
the plover and seagulls
and hand my daughter a trash bag
and gloves. I don’t even know how many
animals are left. I am afraid
to look for the answer.

Emily Hockaday’s first full-length collection Naming the Ghost is out with Cornerstone Press November 2022. She is the author of five prior chapbooks, most recently Beach Vocabulary from Red Bird Chaps. Her work has appeared in print and online journals, as well as the Wayfinding, Poets of Queens, and In Isolation anthologies. She can be found on the web at www.emilyhockaday.com and on Twitter @E_Hockaday.

Photograph by Aryeh Alex via a Creative Commons license.

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Thank you for reading! If you appreciate creative resistance and would like to support it, you can make a small, medium or large donation to Writers Resist from our Give a Sawbuck page.

Throwaway

By Karen Kilcup

Who would want to live in a world which is just not quite fatal? –Rachel Carson

A one-woman Revolution,
Jemima Wilkinson was stoned
for preaching the light that lives
in everyone. The Public Universal Friend
was driven north from Philadelphia
to the Finger Lakes, her movement forecasting
what would follow: women’s rights,
abolition, the Underground Railroad.

Today the monstrous trucks lumber north
with New York City’s trash, creating
a mountain baptized Seneca Meadows,
leaving a trail of sludge and garbage that leaches
slowly into the lakes, their stretched-out
digits trying to grasp what it all means,
will mean, in a moment when land and water
and history are for sale by the Town Council,
which spews the gospel of lower taxes
and buries ever deeper the women
of Seneca Falls, Seneca Lake,
and the sparkling railroad that carried
so many to fresh futures.

In this place, this time, what does clean mean?
What—or who—is dirty? Will we push
the plastic and the people underground
for good, or will the glacial hands
that hold the Haudenosaunee
send the refuse down, down,
until it returns elsewhere
in poisoned protest?

Poet’s note: A Quaker known by many as the Public Universal Friend, Jemima Wilkinson fled the ostensibly liberal city of Philadelphia shortly after the American Revolution, joined by devout followers who saw her as a spiritual guide. Susan Brind Morrow’s story in The Nation, “The Finger Lakes Are Being Poisoned,” ironically parallels Wilkinson’s flight to the appalling movement of diesel trucks that carry New York’s waste to the formerly pristine region that is home to centuries of Iroquois (Haudenosaunee) people, as well as to some of America’s most important movements for social justice advanced by Native Americans, women, and enslaved people—all historically considered subhuman and “dirty.”

Photograph by OwlPacino via a Creative Commons license.

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What I Learn

By Lorna Rose

I listen to the sweaty silence,
his throbbing presence as he stares at
my developing chest.

I learn to calculate the tides.
Learn his breath smells like mints when he’s offering me up.
Men’s gazes have teeth.

Pivot and scan for the response he wants
at the appropriate time.
You’re pretty. Perform for me.

Legs and boobs get you far. They open doors
to bedrooms
where all good girls go.

Learn to hide and calculate the tides.
Aren’t you proud you made your father happy?

Lorna Rose is a Pacific Northwest writer and speaker. Her narrative nonfiction and poetry have been recognized by Pacific Northwest Writers Association and the Oregon Poetry Association, and have appeared in About Place Journal, Third Wednesday, Jellyfish Review, Scary Mommy, and elsewhere. Lorna also speaks publicly on motherhood, finding resilience through writing, and her experience in AmeriCorps. She is at work on a memoir about going from LA party girl to trail worker in rural Alaska. For more, visit Lorna’s website.

Photograph by That guy names Jere via a Creative Commons license.

**A note from Writers Resist:**

Thank you for reading! If you appreciate creative resistance and would like to support it, you can make a small, medium or large donation to Writers Resist from our Give a Sawbuck page.

Everyone Tells Me

By Alma A.

Everyone tells me
It wasn’t my fault,
That karma will get him,
Will leave him to rot.

Everyone tells me
I should have fought harder,
And why did I wear that,
I was asking for trouble.

Everyone tells me,
That ‘no’ isn’t binding,
It’s fluid, it’s blurred,
I am overreacting.

Filthy, contaminated,
Shameful, guilt-ridden.
I could have stopped him,
A dim future, unwritten.

Everyone tells me,
That I’m not okay,
But maybe I will be,
Maybe someday.

When hell freezes over,
And rapists stop raping,
Only there might I get
My chance at escaping.

But when my words reach no ears,
And the fighting ceases,
I’m the one who will be there
To pick up the pieces.

Alma A. is originally from Boston, and now resides in Canada with her cat and dog. She is a student with a passion for writing, and she aspires to do it on a professional level. She mostly writes science fiction in her spare time and sells her crafts on the side.

Photograph by Jane Fox via a Creative Commons license.

**A note from Writers Resist:**

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Fury

By Skye Wilson

I want to break his bones for what he did.
No metaphors, just snap against my skin;
pain blooming in his eyes like burns on flesh.
I’ll scorch all of the skin he touched me with.

I want to grow to twice my usual size,
drink in the pain and terror in his eyes,
feel the power as I tower in starlight,
inhale the fear he sensed on me that night.

Tell Salome the Baptist’s head won’t do,
I take more than half a kingdom to subdue:
I need rivers of the blood of all the men
who kill their lovers and who hurt my friends.
Give me the lives and wives they don’t deserve.
Give me a platter: on it, place the world.

Skye Wilson is a bisexual Scottish writer, living in Newcastle. She has an MSc in creative writing from the University of Edinburgh. Her work is preoccupied with the body and belonging. Find her words at skye-wilson.com or on Twitter @skyegwilson.

Image by Sharon Brogan via a Creative Commons license.

**A note from Writers Resist:**

Thank you for reading! If you appreciate creative resistance and would like to support it, you can make a small, medium or large donation to Writers Resist from our Give a Sawbuck page.