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.
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
excerpt from a poem by Heather Lee Rogers
if the plant is spiky
and lives in a jar
safe from the black thumb
safe from the black cat
if the plant is spiky
can it draw my lost blood
if the plant’s in a jar
can it clean my dead air
Read the rest of Heather’s poem in the upcoming S/tick Issue 4.2!
In the meantime, check out more of Heather’s work at www.heatherleerogerspoetry.com.
excerpt from a poem by Jennifer Leider
grimed streetlamps light
pavement plagued with glass
straining—the moon doesn’t come around here
police sirens sing strawberry blueberry
and your hair smells like papaya
in the skulking night gangs
baby-faced boys with jutting chins
hoping guns turn them men
they won’t bother us anyways
this bodega smells like
donkeys and cigarettes and sulfur
we heave ourselves over the fence
to the neighborhood pool
your dad thinks you like boys
Read the rest of Jennifer’s poem in the upcoming S/tick Issue 4.2!
In the meantime, check out Jennifer’s Instagram @followtheleider.
excerpt from a review by Catherine Lee
If, in September 1666, the English King Charles II had acted upon intelligence he received from his secret agent in Holland, Mrs. Aphra Behn, his naval fleet would not have been burned at its moorings far up the Thames in June 1667 by the Dutch colluding with exiled British dissidents.
But no, the king and his ministers were preoccupied with wining, dining, wenching, and other such expressions of their divine right. As Behn later reported to her biographer, “all the encouragement [I] met with, was to be laughed at by the Minister [I] wrote to, and [my] letter showed by way of a contempt.”
Behn had to borrow money to return to England, as her expense reimbursement cheques never appeared despite repeated desperate entreaties to her royal employers. She reportedly spent time in debtor’s prison as a result of the crown’s negligence.
But Aphra went on to write and produce 17 hit plays. As the author of poetry, translations, and 13 novels, Behn may have a claim to being the first English woman to earn her living by writing.
Find out more about Aphra Behn in the upcoming S/tick Issue 4.2!
And in the meantime, check out Catherine Lee’s multimedia pieces archived on Soundcloud/jazz-cat-lee and VIMEO/jazzovation, as well as her two handmade, signed, limited edition poetry chapbooks augmented with music for sale at Etsy/JazzOvationInn.
by Elaine Woo
Look for more artwork from Elaine Woo in the upcoming S/tick Issue 4.2!
excerpt by Suzanne Ondrus
from The Death of an Unvirtuous Woman
The incident began Saturday night:
into her ear,
that perceived the babies’ colic
and scarlet fever wails.
A slice from
of her mouth
out through her
that never was on a pillow
more than five hours.
With the corn knife, she could do
the corn fast, ten ears in three minutes.
Watch for the rest of the poem, and more from Suzanne Ondrus, in S/tick 4.2, coming your way soon!
An excerpt of “The Savior” by Kika Dorsey
You said your hunting was only sacrifice,
to put the red heart of elk on table.
You said your climbing ladders
was a way to hang me
on the red dawn of ambition,
that every father is dead,
every son a climber,
and I said I never chose to live with sacrifice,
and now all I know is loss.
Read the rest of “The Savior” in the upcoming S/tick Issue 4.2, chock-full of feminist creative writing and artwork. And check out more from Kika at her website, kikadorsey.com.