Cass Noel (she/her) / "I'm a Little Sailor" / https://www.instagram.com/cass_noel_studio/
the fool
hardship, the work, and the worship
spoiled soil turned up by the shovelful
it was obscene what happened out there
reduced to ash, whistling through its teeth
with good bones but hopelessly haunted
it’s nothing nobody did, i just toiled too long in the
field and it rode me back like smoke on my coat
something’s always been off here.
we share no mother tongue and i cannot lie, so i
approach with my quiet your mask unflinching
whether i’m out on a walk or dead in a ditch
the stoic expression i don’t dare interrupt
why won’t you give me your eyes?
with summer’s perfume in your nostrils, just
breathe, breathe, cease moving
starve dirty habits and put on those hideous overalls
i must paint until it looks like someone lives here
i must keep odd hours, do dirty work, go where i
please. honey, there’s no one else but i felt feral
and ran for the hills seeking a hole to die in
whispering into stone, praying, praying your gaze
may rise to rest on me when i return
– Fin (they/them)
A geography of loss
Do not ask me for stars.
Do not, because the sky and I
are no longer speaking,
not since the maps began to molt,
shedding pieces of home
like a wounded animal casting off its skin.
What have I to do with constellations
when entire neighborhoods
survive only in memory?
Do not ask, for what have I to do with beauty
when every road I imagine
carries the dead.
I sit before a blank page.
A bird crosses it,
making the sound of a siren.
A tent casts its shadow on it.
A mother searches through dust
for a voice that still answers
to the call of her name.
And suddenly the poem is no longer a poem.
The sea enters it,
not the sea one views on postcards
but the sea of love,
the one that watches,
the one that remembers,
the one that has swallowed more farewells
than swathes of moonlight.
The dead keep asking me to write about life.
Gaza compels me to write about life
as though life were not the very thing
slipping through my fingers.
Each time I reach for the news,
ruin opens before me,
making language unable to afford
the luxury of flowers.
If my metaphors arrive barefoot,
forgive me.
They know the shards of ruin
the way my feet do —
intimately.
Forgive me if every sentence
leans downward, mourning —
leans
as if grief were gravity.
For even my imagination,
once wild with jasmine flowers,
now arrives dust-covered,
limping,
checking for survivors.
— Fatena Abu Mostafa, Gaza Strip
This poem appears on wearenotnumbers.org, where emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Every month, we publish Palestinian poetry to help combat Israel’s attempts to erase Palestine’s contributions to history and the arts.
no suprises
nokia phone buzzes like it’s still got minutes.
like it never fucking drowned.
like you never dropped it in a cup at the warped tour.
(it’s not plugged in.)
Green lcd screen says: 1 NEW MESSAGE
voice says:
your voice
but not now voice
then voice
voice with bad decisions and no bills
“hey. don’t forget the thing.
also. track ten. radiohead. no surprises.
it’s gonna fuck you up, but like
softly.
like a lullaby with a knife in it.
smile. when it plays.
smile even if you mean it.”
beep.
click.
room smells different like change and microwaved pizza rolls.
you press nothing.
but the song starts.
glockenspiel.
like teeth clicking in a cartoon morgue.
no alarms and no surprises
from the vents.
from the faucet.
from under the floorboards where you stuffed the year 1997 and promised never to dig it back up.
you forgot the thing.
but now the house hums in e minor.
and everything’s grinning.
especially the wall…
— VJ Edwards
Hereditary
(Inspired by Jeanne Verlee)
She bites her lip, Mom.
She’s three years old
And she bites her lip.
I looked at her yesterday
It was split down the middle.
It broke me in half.
I prayed so hard she wouldn’t inherit this.
But I don’t think He heard me, Mom.
I don’t think God’s listening.
I went to therapy, I took my pills,
I thought I was better.
But my daughter still bites her lip.
It’s bloody, Mom.
Her lip is bloody and I know it’s my fault.
Know she gets it from me.
They say trauma is hereditary.
I wonder how many generations
Will bite their lip?
— Issa (she/her)
the earth rots while i complain about it.
i scarcely notice the green
at its peak
too busy bemoaning the heat
avoiding the ground beneath
its snakes, its bites and bees
yet when the leaves turn,
i am yearnful
knowing the green will rot brown
mourning the warmth i evaded,
while ignoring the snow coming down.
— Robin Moss (they/them)
Robin Moss is a queer poet and nature enthusiast newly based out of Kennewick. They can be found at https://www.instagram.com/r.b.moss/ and https://www.tiktok.com/@mossrobin
