Poem a Day: “1893” by Jamaica

"Cupid in a War Zone" Aysha


Poem a Day: Poem For The Young White Man Who Asked Me How I, An Intelligent, Well-Read Person, Could Believe In The War Between Races by Lorna Dee Cervantes


In my land there are no distinctions.

The barbed wire politics of oppression

have been torn down long ago. The only reminder

of past battles, lost or won, is a slight

rutting in the fertile fields.

In my land

people write poems about love,

full of nothing but contented childlike syllables.

Everyone reads Russian short stories and weeps.

There are no boundaries.

There is no hunger, no

complicated famine or greed.

I am not a revolutionary.

I don’t even like political poems.

Do you think I can believe in a war between races?

I can deny it. I can forget about it

when I’m safe,

living on my own continent of harmony

and home, but I am not


I believe in revolution

because everywhere the crosses are burning,

sharp-shooting goose-steppers round every corner,

there are snipers in the schools…

(I know you don’t believe this.

You think this is nothing but faddish exaggeration. But they

are not shooting at you.)

I’m marked by the color of my skin.

The bullets are discrete and designed to kill slowly.

They are aiming at my children.

These are facts.

Let me show you my wounds: my stumbling mind, my

"excuse me" tongue, and this

nagging preoccupation

with the feeling of not being good enough.

These bullets bury deeper than logic.

Racism is not intellectual.

I can not reason these scars away.

Outside my door

there is a real enemy

who hates me.

I am a poet

who yearns to dance on rooftops,

to whisper delicate lines about joy

and the blessings of human understanding.

I try. I go to my land, my tower of words and

bolt the door, but the typewriter doesn’t fade out

the sounds of blasting and muffled outrage.

My own days bring me slaps on the face.

Every day I am deluged with reminders

that this is not my land

and this is my land.

I do not believe in the war between races

but in this country

there is war.

Published in Emplumada

Rachel Rostad - “To JK Rowling, from Cho Chang”


Elust #57

 Elust #57

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #58? Start with the rules, come back May 1st to submit something and subscribe…

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My post on aftercare is included in this month’s elust!



Click here to support Help Three QTPOC Fatties get to the AMC! by Cory Briana

Dear community of friends, family, and supporters.

We are three queer fatties of color and this will be our first time attending the Allied Media Conference. We really need…

*FemmeCon 2014: Call for Submissions!*


PLEASE SHARE WIDELY: The Femme Conference 2014 call for workshops and programming is OPEN! 

From now until *May 15th*, submit your proposals for workshops, panels, facilitated discussions, skill shares, and lectures. We are looking for well-planned submissions that recognize and respect the array of Femme experience, and we are interested in work that challenges systems of oppression. 

Submit here:

(via kittiesinqueerland)


We’re looking for another contributer to join us here at Bisexual Books!

When Ellie and Sarah started this blog a year ago we had no idea if anyone would even care about bisexuality in literature. Well, besides us. We were grateful to bring on Evan last fall but we still want to expand!


"First Writing Since" by Suheir Hammad

Poem a Day: Who Said it Was Simple, by Audre Lorde


Who Said it Was Simple

by Audre Lorde


There are so many roots to the tree of anger   
that sometimes the branches shatter   
before they bear.
Sitting in Nedicks
the women rally before they march   
discussing the problematic girls   
they hire to make them free.
An almost white counterman passes   
a waiting brother to serve them first   
and the ladies neither notice nor reject   
the slighter pleasures of their slavery.   
But I who am bound by my mirror   
as well as my bed
see causes in colour
as well as sex
and sit here wondering   
which me will survive   
all these liberations.