Jun 4, 2020
all I have been trying to say is this: may even the residue of our love find a curve of wind to dance an echo into.
Hanif Adburraqib, “How Can Black People Write About Flowers At A Time Like This,” published in the Collagist
seen from United States
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seen from United States
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seen from United States
seen from United States
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seen from Netherlands
all I have been trying to say is this: may even the residue of our love find a curve of wind to dance an echo into.
Hanif Adburraqib, “How Can Black People Write About Flowers At A Time Like This,” published in the Collagist
Flour and empty pockets
Apology for Bread by Inez Tan
On this day, like every other, we need bread. This loaf before me, the least of its kind, was not made to feel ashamed by the hands that arranged it gently facing outwards with the others, snug and proud
on the supermarket shelf. Last week, someone loaded bread onto a delivery truck, and someone will drive the plastic wrappers to a garbage dump afterwards. Someone is weatherproofing a house
for refugees in the suburbs, someone is serving drinks on a plane, and someone is holding a protest in the terminal where people have been detained for nine hours without food or water. Bread—even in a child's hands,
this load is nearly weightless, nothing but flour and empty pockets, the legacy of less than a gram of yeast, though not too little to matter—everything it touches will rise.
(Incredibly honored to have my poem, "Apology for Bread," in Issue 95 of The Collagist! I wrote this thinking about how amazing and unlikely it is that just a little bit of yeast can permeate a whole batch of dough. http://thecollagist.com/the-collagist/2018/1/20/apology-for-bread.html)
Malcolm Friend Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo, ...
Yo, I’ve got a new poem up in the latest issue of The Collagist!
bring whatever your mama considers gospel. not the text, but the feeling. tell me what song is likely on when our mother finds herself on the floor, weeping beckoning down whoever lurks behind the sky. we'll play that loud.
Danez Smith, “shout out to my niggas in Mexico,” published in The Collagist
We are waiting for a train, trying to decipher the muffled sounds on the loudspeaker. You have your suitcase. I have mine. This is a dream about romance, you tell me, and I start to get mad at the way you always ruin everything with explanations. We open our suitcases. They're both empty.
Patrick Dundon, “Dream with Explanations,” published in The Collagist
The cat led the deer into the yard. Whether it ate there, I cannot say. Whether the cat was rewarded with a dead field, crushed by the mincing, or a vole or sparrow, I did not go into the woods to see. The wall rings my yard like a green bottle factory. We tell the wild this far and no farther. We tell ourselves we will use the word but do not.
Alison Stine, “Symbiotic,” published in The Collagist
i confess / i cooked a man / sized pot of pasta, beef, & veggies—& called it reclamation— despite my mother's tongue / shriveling like a snail in the salt / of my english / i wanted to swim against the current / of white wash / for once or at least learn how to / summon the dead i cleaved a kabocha / how i imagine a machete might a french slave / master's neck
Mckendy Fils-Aimé, “soup joumou,” published in The Collagist
AMY LOCKHART & MARC BELL /
The Collagist (2009) Paper puppet and cut out animation, 2′ minutes. _ http://amylockhart.ca