don't die press

My Mother is Bone White and Black

by , on
2019-12-05

Editor’s Note: Watch the don’t die press blog for some oldies but goodies from an earlier era of S/tick!

by Megan Harris

My mother is bone white and black
daughter born from cocaine breath
came out on the cusp of winter.
A wispy gasp and darkened heart
skin is paper stretched over bone
white sheet, dark pen, dark red.
Mother warns daughter to not love death
to not long to feel his dark eyes
fall upon her breasts.
Daughter is of winter locking,
a chest begging to be opened to light,
fill the lungs with dirt and breathe life.
Mother is bone white and black,
her burning head stares down
Daughter turns away again – frozen.

(Issue 1.3: Torn)

For Muhlaysia

by , on
2019-11-20

Excerpt of a poem by Anastasia Walker

They beat you under the Texas sun in
A goddamn parking lot, one two four
Eight ten kicking punching howling
Filming so they could pretend
It was everyone and not just them
Who were unmanned
By a beauty that held
A mirror to their squalid smallness

Woman holding sign that says "Respect All Women"
Above photo by T. Chick McClure on Unsplash
Photo of Trans Pride flag by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash

Dear Bastards

by , on
2019-11-08

This excerpt by Katherine Davis will appear in S/tick’s upcoming Issue 4.3!

Useless competing
Against other women, I was made to stand naked as an
Anatomical model, while doctors lectured bunches of aspiring
Residents, all generalizations based on the study of the patriarchal.
Told repeatedly my feelings were impossible, I burrowed under
My skin, bathed in oxygenated blood, vital energy, constructed
An interior palace until I was old and learned and far away

Breaking the Softness

by , on
2019-11-06

Excerpt by Naomi Borkent. Read the rest in Issue 4.3 — coming soon!

Maybe you would’ve preferred 
A woman with soft legs
That can’t stand up for themselves.

Not like mine, strong,
Able to kick, able to run.

Then I remember that they did not stand like trees

Projections

by , on
2019-11-01

Excerpt by Colleen Donnelly — read more in Issue 4.3, coming soon!

    Felicia momentarily pulled her glasses down, seeming to stare dutifully, sympathetically, peering into Ms. Levine’s heart. She made her voice waver just a tad, as she lowered her tone to utter the always terrifying edict, “You have cancer.” She could hear the whistle as Ms. Harding gulped back air.  “Colorectal cancer. Stage III. I’m sorry to say the prognosis is not good.” 

    She watched Ms. Levine intently as she delivered the sentence.  Ms. Levine seemed to shrink in the chair, head dropping, shoulders caving, as she tried to draw herself into a protective ball. Felicia held her hand out across the desk, Ms. Levine took it. Felicia squeezed and then gently stroked it – limited tactile contact indicating compassion. The desk was the court they’d play across. Sitting in adjacent chairs or together on a couch next to the fountain would invite soulful pats, perhaps a reaffirming hug or two that could complicate the negotiations. Collaboration was a necessary tightly-controlled, staged illusion.

    Ms. Levine withdrew her hand, took a moment to compose and draw herself more upright once again and asked, “And what exactly are my options?”

Disappearances

by , on
2019-10-29

Excerpt by Ann Tweedy

I feel sad for those erased—even the parts
erased–so that the story will stand up
like a building made of blocks
and not fall, so that it can be simple—right
outweighing wrong, good towering over
bad—and rise above the confusion that mires us.
Think of Anna Mae Aquash or Assia Weevil.
Anna Mae, an AIM activist, gunned down by AIM women and men during Wounded Knee
because she was so strong and true she looked impossible—
an informant because she was arrested and inexplicably released,
because a male FBI agent had infiltrated earlier
and gotten away with it. A group of AIM women drove her away
from the Pine Ridge house she was staying at.
10 days later—February—found by a rancher
with a bullet in her eye socket. You can watch the documentary about her lover—
A Good Day to Die—and never hear word of her. Or go to the museum
of AIM portraits in Minneapolis and not see her.

A first sneak peek at Issue 4.3

by , on
2019-10-21

Fall 2019’s Issue 4.3 of S/tick is just around the corner! While waiting, please enjoy this excerpt of Linda M. Crate’s “women of today”:

you don’t have enough strength to silence us
we refuse to be quiet anymore—
once we remembered our voices
it was over for you,
and we will sing the song of sirens and banshees
invite every angry werewolf and vampire
over for dinner
watch as your glass ceilings are smashed to bits;
because we are the daughters of warriors

Snapshots

by , on
2019-09-13

Put Your Hand in Mine
Elaine Woo
Signature Press (2019)

Review by Rachael Ikins

Elaine Woo’s journey from young childhood to gray hair is told with a close connection to the natural world, even as it succumbs to environmental degradation. She is a relentless observer who gives the reader unique perspectives on such homely natural things as a cat stalking a bird, crows gathering, or, most significantly to her, the waves washing “the hem” of the beach. Even quotidian clothing, crafted by nature and by humans, takes on purpose for the speaker, from worn denim to winter boots and an embroidered tunic.

Despite the speaker’s sustained solitude, it is the odd poem about people–her friend who was diagnosed with breast cancer, her mentor who lost the vision in one eye, her mother, her father–that define the collection with snapshot-like clarity. From poem to poem, the experience of reading is akin to looking through an old diary or photo album, though not always a happy one. It is through her relationships with people we see her grow from an impressionable girl into a woman who owns herself and her life. Her female characters, such as her mentor, prove brave independent women no matter what challenges them. Meanwhile, her relationships with women bolster her own self-examination and willingness to accept her own flaws as she works to strengthen her sense of self.

This reviewer found the format of some poems distracting as the poet sought to put her words into motion across the page. For example, the arrangement of one line on the left margin, skipping two lines, and then settling in the right margin, in actuality seemed unnecessary: the language in these poems is strong enough on its own to convey the heartbeat of the seasonal cycles riding on the waves of the ocean in which the poet finds steadfast peace when in pain. However, other readers may enjoy having this enigmatic canvas to interpret from.

In the end, “Put Your Hand in Mind” reads as a complicated tension between despair and hope as well as a call for women to hold hands across their differences. The Amazon Rain Forest is burning. Rafts of plastic pollute the speaker’s beloved ocean. By 2030, humans may use up all of the earth’s ability to replenish topsoil and, hence, food. Where does one find hope in the face of such realities? Woo turns repeatedly to the beauty of nature for her inspiration. It is this we poets must remember, and through our writings, speak out and call each other to accountability.