Frederick-Douglass Knowles II

He hung from an old hickory tree along the Mississippi
A uppity Nigguh seared in a Red Summer flame
His Oh Lawd! forsaken for a swig of moonshine
A sun god wrung for eyeballin’ the sun

A uppity Nigguh seared in a Red Summer flame
His innard ate earth under a disemboweled sky
A sun god wrung for eyeballin’ the sun
Charred loins stick-poked by children cloaked in Christianity

His innard ate earth under a disemboweled sky
Mothers cast quilts riverside to keep close eye
Charred loins stick-poked by children cloaked in Christianity
Minions mimicking their ghost-hooded inheritance

Mothers cast quilts riverside to keep close eye
A crow psalmed the blues to a metronome of cracked bone
Minions mimicking their ghost-hooded inheritance
While I gripped my shiv in the shallows of a stream

A crow psalmed the blues to a metronome of cracked bone
He hung from an old hickory tree along the Mississippi
While I gripped my shiv in the shallows of a stream
His Oh Lawd! forsaken for a swig of moonshine

Issue 10, 2018, pg. 19

Frederick-Douglass Knowles II

I enter Cedar Grove’s office
and extend the slit of sunlight
peering through a cracked door
lock eyes with an old sexton
inscribing names of fallen souls.
I stammer hello. Utter the silent
“K” in my last name. He flips
through an index of ancient files
brushes a layer of cumulus dust
from 1974, and engraves 56 R7 HK
onto the yellow surface of a Post-It.

I thank him for his time, slowly
exit his office and descend down
the hillside studying each pillar
in search of my father’s marker.
I pause in front of a pallid row
of ancient stone, flap the Post-It
over a cluster of ants, to unveil
the worn plaque of a Negroid
sailor. His last name mine.

Clouded tears recall the legacy
of an Airman recruit rigging chutes
for the USS Wright. A Native Son
swaying to Coltrane in Korean cafes
with cinnamon women, who never
choked on the plume of black smoke
sewn into his skin. Debating Truman’s
liberation of Yongsan that would churn
5 million Seouls into Korean dust.

Issue 10, 2018, pg. 18

Jeffrey Hannah

Late July in Central Arkansas, the Delta
commanding her presence. Clouds rolling in dark and darker,
and the wind and sound of rumbles took over what we knew…
or whatever we thought we knew. The Blackjack Oaks in the
backyard littered their leaves not unnaturally, but unseasonal.
The power out for four to five hours… and no place to go.

The rain, with rhythmic change, felt as if a metronome led its fall.
Our doors open to let in the summer evening’s fading light.
You on the couch, reading… taking what was felt the
best use of time. Me sipping my drink, feeling a new
darkness coming on. Both feeling the turn of a world.
You and Me Alone. Together.

Issue 10, 2018, pg. 71

Jeffrey Hannah

Four houses down from me an Estate Sale begins.
I watch through my window the pickups line up curbside, and
strangers entering what was once a home. A lamp, a couch, appliances…
Truck beds being filled and harnessed down with bungie.
The closing sound of rusted tailgates.

Only days ago was that house haunted with the living.
I didn’t know him. I didn’t know his loves or displeasures.
But I do know there were days I passed, walking the dog,
and saw him perhaps working in the yard or maybe even
carrying in some of the things that have now been auctioned.

So for the experience, I go and pose as if I was in the market.
A blonde woman, professionally dressed, answers a collector’s
question on the age of a grandfather clock. Strangers, uninvited,
moving methodically throughout a house not their own
telling themselves things they want to hear.

Issue 10, 2018, pg. 70

Mercedes Lawry

In the hollow
of the half-dark
swallow of moon

with the stink
of leaf mold,
glisten of snail.

Crouched
like a spent iris
between weeping trees,

I look out
on wild filigree,
listening for

sounds beyond
river-rush
and nighthawks,

risking small breaths
a moth wing
from silence.

Issue 9, 2017, pg. 74