Radius / Anna Britton
2024, Acrylic on Canvas
“A study in cubist shapes. I love cubism as a movement, but the original cubists often used earth tones exclusively, using color sparingly. I like to incorporate jewel tones and intuitive color choices in my work, more akin to expressionists, and wanted to combine the two movements.”
https://www.annabrittonart.com
Instagram: artbyannabritton
My Dad Loves Me
🎶 My dad loves me, this I know.
For he has always told me so. 🎶
My dad loves me like a Prodigal Son:
Tarnishing his “good name” with my frivolity.
My dad loves me like a Prodigal Son:
Crawling, ashamed and begging forgiveness.
My dad loves me like a Prodigal Son:
Lost and flailing, needing his guidance.
I am not a Prodigal Son.
I cannot drag a name that is not good.
I build my own name into one that is good.
I will not crawl or beg forgiveness,
I have done no wrong.
I am not lost, for he gave me his guidance
when I was his child.
I am not flailing
for I know where I stand.
I am not ashamed of my choices.
I have found my life. I have found my purpose.
My dad loves me like a Prodigal Son:
Outwardly concerned, inwardly ashamed.
— James Duncan
James Duncan is a 30-something queer millennial with some religious trauma. He lives in Kennewick with his two boyfriends and their two dogs.
11:47pm
the sink drains torn
a do about not much except
these dishes, stacked
a geology of the day
here is coffee, 5:45, small patter
of feet far more alert than my eyes
a gesture of given-up-already dawn
here is breakfast
oatmeal dries so fast, like glue in hot weather
or paint with an unwiped run
here is the first of seven or eight snacks
wrappers or small yogurt bowls of strawberries
perhaps chips like schist, lumpy crystals between damp clays
and here is lunch, a hurried affair
and here is dinner, rejected by all
but one of the kids (who ate three kids
worth) which turned
out perfectly
and here is a wine glass, and a milk
jug tea
pot banana
last-weeks
tuna pasta
salad bulging
syran cilantro
stems lime
rusk bean
can kimchi
rind watermelon
cubes floor
translucent salmon
bone pile
sort all these strata
wipe brow, close dishwasher
I am an excellent geologist
I am not afraid of the Tupperware geode
my body is made of compost
— Isaac Lewis
Isaac is a riverbank character whose poetry has appeared in Rejected Lit, Hawk & Handsaw, and Nature Writing.
Liberty Is Still In Sight
This poem could be sung to the tune of the “Marine’s Hymn” (From the halls of Montezuma…)
We will march with Minnesota
and with those in Arkansas.
We will sing the songs of liberty
We will stand both strong and raw.
We will stand for rights and neighbor.
We will make the truth be seen.
We will be the voice of freedom,
For the migrant and unseen.
We’ll remember Alex and Renee
With resolve we’ll say their names.
We will voice the tyrant’s violence
We will name our nation’s shame.
We will walk with Rosa and Martin
We have legacy and light.
We will risk the wrath of tyranny
Liberty is still in sight
We will press through days of struggle
We will march with righteous might
We will not let lies define us
We will rise to speak what’s right
We will buy our neighbor’s groceries
We will whistle in the light
We will risk the wrath of tyranny
Liberty is still in sight.
— Larry Morris (he/him)
Larry Morris is a retired pastor who lives and writes poetry in the Tri-Cities.
Write My Name
“Some parents in Gaza have resorted to writing their children’s names on their legs to help identify them should either they or the children be killed.”
—CNN, 10/22/2023
Write my name on my leg, Mama
Use the black permanent marker
with the ink that doesn’t bleed
if it gets wet, the one that doesn’t melt
if it’s exposed to heat
Write my name on my leg, Mama
Make the lines thick and clear
Add your special flourishes
so I can take comfort in seeing
my mama’s handwriting when I go to sleep
Write my name on my leg, Mama
and on the legs of my sisters and brothers
This way we will belong together
This way we will be known
as your children
Write my name on my leg, Mama
and please write your name
and Baba’s name on your legs, too
so we will be remembered
as a family
Write my name on my leg, Mama
Don’t add any numbers
like when I was born or the address of our home
I don’t want the world to list me as a number
I have a name and I am not a number
Write my name on my leg, Mama
When the bomb hits our house
When the walls crush our skulls and bones
our legs will tell our story, how
there was nowhere for us to run
—Zeina Azzam
Zeina Azzam is a Palestinian-American poet.
Every month, we publish Palestinian poetry to help combat Israel’s attempts to erase Palestine’s contributions to history and the arts.
carnegieendowment.org/sada/2024/02/vanishing-ink-palestinian-culture-under-threat-in-gaza
