Boundaries

Johann van der walt

white foam strolled on currents
one way from the ocean
that is what they call whites in africa
they say we came from the sea
mermaids shipwrecked
on forbidden shores
but my god how quickly
we shaved our gills
and cut our tails
built cities and roads
our hands brought forth buildings
cubicles anc orner oficces swallow us whole
traffic and overtime
mechanisma of our own making
we challenged the sky
feet walked this country
our bones grow from farm soil
an african tongue defines my limits
still i am something else to you
an inconvenience
a borderless colonialist
white men in africa have no blood
they say
my veins ooze scum […]

Robert Beveridge

Ballizio. Papier-machêd masks
that resemble the Chinese zodiac.
The dancers swap them at will,
toss them across the fire
as if they were water balloons.
One is never sure who is monkey,
who cat; three-card monte
with pas-de-deux. Who is who
in the end does not matter;
when money extends hands,
the pull is too much; you join.

About the Author

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Collective Unrest, Cough Syrup, and Blood & Bourbon, among others.

Hibah Shabkhez

Country names are odd little sounds when strained
Through the meshes of a many-langue mix;
Sing a pore. Through sun-born trickles of sweat
Or via the skin’s rapture when it rained?
Pak is tan – Pure is brown – How did that fix
Our taan upon self-loathing and regret?

And so, I ran, but whither? To La os,
To whence they bring bones? To Iceland, green still,
Or to Greenland capped in dwindling ice?
To the Mali for a Malta, for floss
To soothe the Cry-mania of the Hill
Bound to Greyhound John by a Thigh-land splice?

Cam, a bodi, a beckoning aa,
Strewn […]

Susana H. Case

Alone, I go to Sounion
for one last Greek ruin on the mainland,
Poseidon looking west. One more day
scratched on the cell wall of my mind,
like Byron carving his name on a column’s base.

My tiny, locked window of time,
how it slows on the promontory,
and, after the ferry, in back streets of an island
with whitewash and fish.

With chicken and with women,
you use your hands, they say here.
Ironic that I could be told such a joke,
with my history
inscribed in my red-rimmed eyes.

I try the path up to a white and shining
monastery, but take a […]