They crowd us from the train and into the chill of the night air. It is again November. There is no
light but the light of the moon. She is full and shines through the tangled limbs of barren trees.
Move, the officer of the peace grunts, and disoriented you stumble to your knees. Move, he says
again, the sound sharper and shriller this time, and you try to get out of his way, but you fall to
all fours. Your own shadow prevents you from seeing your hands in front of you, inches from the
edge of the platform. The moon has betrayed you by offering your back to his eyes. He kicks you
hard in the ribs. You wince as pain crackles electric through you. You hear the bone as it snaps,
shards of rib pierce the surrounding tissue. You curse the bitch of the moon. You are weak, weak,
weak, so weak, you’re not even that old, and yet you are so weak, he whispers into your ear, his
body heat sudden upon you. You are caught, he has you in the posture of an eager, submissive
lover. You fight a wave of nausea. You feel his erection as it strains the coarse fabric of his
uniform. You eat the image you cannot see. You remember the First War, how the officers were
still human then. The boys they sent out into the desert returned, changed. The White Dog
disfigured their souls out there, in the expanses of white sand beneath whiter sky. You remember
hearing that they went mad as they could no longer distinguish the horizon line and to their eyes
all was as blankness and it was then that the White Dog appeared and became their master. You
remember hearing the White Dog made them partake of the flesh of their fellows. You remember
hearing they died and were not dead. The puncture in your side pulses with the explosive
brightness of a dying star. You leak light you cannot see. In ending, everything shimmers. How
can you be this weak, he says, his lips wet against your ear, his breath hot and sour. He wraps his
right hand around your neck, his hand is so large that it encircles your throat completely, easily.
He is such a large man. I could just squeeze and throw you, limp, onto the tracks, his voice
resounds as though from deep within your body. The air in your throat is vibrant with
constriction. Indeed, the autonomic functions of the body have a terrifying insistence. And just as
sudden as he was upon you, his hand is gone and you can no longer sense his presence, his
weight and his heat have vanished. You still can’t see your hands in front of you. Minutes pass
though they might be ages. You finally think to lower onto your forearms and roll onto your
back, safely away from the edge of the platform. You look up into the face of the moon now
above the trees. She bathes you gentle in her light. You remember the piano key in your left
hand. The last remaining piece of the only thing your mother ever loved.

Bio: Elizabeth Moylan is an artist, writer, and educator based in Brooklyn. She holds a BA in Gender Studies from the University of Chicago, where she also studied Russian Language and Literature, and an MFA in Painting and Drawing from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, where she was an instructor of painting, print media, and fiber and material studies. She has also taught through the Brooklyn Public Library and been a guest lecturer at the Rhode Island School of Design. She has been a featured reader at Verses in Vinyl at All Blues and will be a featured reader at the Out of the Box reading series at the Bowery Poetry Club on March 11th. 

it’s not the crutches we decry / it’s the need to move forward / though we haven’t the
strength. This opening line from “Crutches” often plays in my head in a grainy voice with a
syrupy sweet pitch. There was a time when this voice would play in the speakers of my 2004
Lexus as I drove from another bratty two year old’s greyly decorated home. These lines were my
play, my comfort, and although the speakers of my 2004 Lexus were my favorite place to access
them, they squatted themselves into my being the very first time I heard them. Wherever I am,
engaging with Nikki Giovanni’s work makes me feel at home.

When I was introduced to Nikki Giovanni’s album, Cotton Candy On A Rainy Day, I was
in a lover’s room. Although it wasn’t my own, her voice came on and solidified an intimate
familiarity I felt in the space. A prior knowledge of the spirit rather than the mind emerged as I
asked about Nikki Giovanni’s life and writing. There was twinkling in my chest, a wash of an
oceanic breeze tingling over my body. Because of this auditory introduction to Nikki Giovanni’s
work, I am mostly drawn to her voice as well as her words. When reading poems, I often feel
like someone is standing over my shoulder and whispering the words onto the page in front of
me, particularly when I can relate to what is being drawn up through the crosses and curves.
Miss Nikki is who I have this feeling most viscerally with.

After hearing them over and over, mostly in my room and in my car, I read “Crutches”
and other poems from Cotton Candy On A Rainy Day aloud to myself. “Crutches” speaks to the
emotional bandwidth we all have as humans, the pain that comes with feeling, and the even
greater pain that comes with asking for help outside of ourselves to handle the rumblings of the
heart. Any person intent on expressing and experiencing their deep feeling will feel seen by
Giovanni’s words:

i really want to say something about all of us
am i shouting i want you to hear me
emotional falls always are
the worst
and there are no crutches
to swing back on

Here she takes the time to scream loudly about something that is usually experienced in
quiet, in solitude. She takes the time to place herself amongst “all of us,” declaring that although
our pains may be unique, this intensity of feeling is universal. It is within her own comfort in
naming the depths of her soul and honoring its rough edges that I am able to feel at home. I am
able to feel comfort in feeling.

As a child, I was resistant to feeling emotions like sadness, anxiety, disappointment, rage.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve been intentional about letting myself feel these feelings, allowing themto course through my blood with gratitude for the heat. Hearing “Crutches” gives the little girl in
me a warm embrace, telling her something she could never quite understand: It is okay to feel.
Through this poem and many others, Nikki Giovanni allows me to regain a closeness with
myself through her own interiority that serves as a mirror for what we must all face. Her comfort
in herself became a place for me to lay a pallet down.

Love, in its ever evolving expansiveness, is a central theme in my work. In diving deeper
into Miss Giovanni, I was drawn to poems where she overtly expressed her sexuality, eroticism,
and desire, most notably in her collection of Love Poems. It was through poems like “That Day”
where she declares: “we can do it on the floor / we can do it on the stair / we can do it on the
couch / we can do it in the air” and “Seduction,” where she imagines a scene of her using the
power of the erotic to seduce a fellow revolutionary, that I was able to see more possibilities
within myself and my own writing. Before Nikki Giovanni’s work, I hadn’t engaged with erotic
poems. It was particularly surprising for me to come across erotic poetry by a Black woman
writer. With dually sexist and racist figures like Sarah Baartman constantly swirling around my
psyche, it took time for me to come to a place of feeling comfort in my sexuality rather than
shame. Nikki Giovanni’s firmness in being forthcoming about her sexuality, amidst these
negative stereotypes surrounding us, was a sprinkle of encouragement as I went on my own
journey to embrace my eroticism rather than hide it. To do so in an artistic medium such as
poetry—a practice that is often seen as highbrow—is even more of a statement. She laid a
foundation for Black women like me to be in touch with their sexual selves and not allow that
embrace to take away from their intellect and active dreams towards the revolution.

Seduction by Nikki Giovanni and untitled (reading with you) by me.
Her consciousness is always in my subconscious.

I have a great appreciation for the wandering essence of Nikki Giovanni’s work. Many of
her poems feel like a journey. Take “Fascination” for example, where she starts off saying:

finding myself still fascinated
by the falls and rapids
i nonetheless prefer the streams
contained within the bountiful brown shorelines

Giovanni shows us her awe at the natural world, the simple beauties that capture her eye.
Within two stanzas, she turns her attention to an unnamed person saying:

my head is always down
for i no longer look for you

The awe of the world around her takes her mind to the awe of a special person in her life,
an unexpected yet natural curve in the journey of the poem. At the start, one would assume that
the poem will continue in the space of nature, but the wires of Giovanni’s mind always want to
take us on a wild ride. She continues to speak to her lover while weaving in the atmospheric
condition:

i wade from the quiet
of your presence into the turbulence
of your emotions
i have now understood a calm day
does not preclude a stormy evening

We are able to see the connections sparking in her mind and go on the ride with her. She
gives us room to expand the bounds of what can transpire in a poetic journey. At the end,
Giovanni takes us right where we began saying:

if you were a pure bolt
of fire cutting the skies
i’d touch you risking my life
not because i’m brave or strong
but because i’m fascinated
by what the outcome will be

I love the direct usage of the word “fascinated” in both the beginning and ending of the
poem. The middle of the poem zigzags in a way, taking us from one idea and quickly veering
into the next, but that word “fascinated” grounds us back into the awe and wonder that we were
introduced to from the start. Where the words in the middle of Giovanni’s poems go is usually a
mystery to me, but by the end I can feel her palm covering the back of my hand knowing that we
have walked along an unforeseen path and transformed together.

The journey she takes us on in a poem almost acts as a mirror for the journey of her life,
with many unexpected twists and turns that are still logical within her grand plan. Miss Nikki
started her career showing us her anger, her truth, and her allegiance to her people. While that
energy certainly didn’t leave her bones, she allowed it to take new shapes. She showed us her
rage, but she also showed us her love. Miss Nikki’s work took on many forms—poetry, essays,
children’s books, albums—and she lent her knowledge to students directly by becoming an
educator. It’s as if she had a few different dialects to choose from when asserting her aliveness
and in turn, asserting ours.

In the fall of 2023, I found myself meandering through stacks of poetry at the library:
another home for me. I scanned the rows for “G” and was delighted to find a first edition copy of Nikki Giovanni’s debut, Black Feeling Black Talk Black Judgement, asking to be placed in my
hands.

The squealing was as internal as I could make it, my twenty-four year old self suddenly
turning ten, my breath a wind we hear as we take in the still beauty of an oak from a bench. I
hurried to check it out, the corners of my mouth gleaming, my eyes a lake of admiration. Upon
cracking the cover open, I was met with the evidence of others’ exploration of Miss Nikki, dating
back to the eighties.

In her words, I was most struck by her audacity. At twenty-five—this time capsule of her
spirit at the time mirroring my present reality—she did not leave a word unsaid, particularly in
“The True Import of Present Dialogue, Black vs. Negro”:

can you kill?
a nigger can die
we ain’t got to prove we can die
we got to prove we can kill

Through her rage towards systems of oppression, she showed the love she had for her
community. There lays a pillowsoft beckoning in her words, an open invitation to feel at home in
our rightful anger. She knew from age twenty-five that these things had to be let out, written
down, and memorialized. This philosophy, which is a central characteristic in her work, is an
integral lesson for everyone in the community, especially revolutionary Black folks.

The evolution that comes between my two favorite works from Nikki Giovanni—Black
Feeling Black Talk Black Judgement and Cotton Candy on A Rainy Day—is stark. Her first work
was extremely militant, looking at the oppressive forces at work outside of her and interrogating
its effects. Cotton Candy On A Rainy Day turns her energy inward, interrogating how her own
actions/thoughts/beliefs affect her. The militancy is still there almost a decade later, but with a
new face. She is intent on confronting herself. Who are militants and activists but deep feeling
people unafraid to let their emotions show? The revolution requires changes outside of us, but it
also requires a revolutionizing of the self through knowledge and introspection. It was as if she
came to know, as she matured, that the revolution had to start with herself, deep feeling and the
expression of it the way to get there. She showed us herself so we could have the courage to look
at ourselves. She showed us herself so we could become partners in struggle. For Miss Nikki, it
was clear that she was always thinking about us as a people, and her “I” within her introspection
was one of community, one of oneness. It was important that people felt comfortable being their
Black selves alongside other Black people. This cultivation of community serves as another
manifestation of home.

As we mourn the recent loss of this poetic giant, lover, revolutionary, and teacher, I am
content with the knowledge that she will continue to be a beacon for the people. Nikki Giovanni
will continue to speak to us through whispers real and imagined. My everlasting connection to
her work will give way for me to feel a comfort in her, through her, and inch closer to an
understanding and mastery of the self. She did the hard work of finding home within the bonesshe lived in so we could do the same. I know that wherever her work is, wherever I can access
her, I am at home.

Bio: Nicole Alexander is a poetess and educator currently based in NYC.  She graduated from Syracuse University in 2020, earning a BA in English and textual studies with a concentration in creative writing. Her recently released, Why I Love Dreaming, is her debut collection of poems.

Poem #3:
Espousing bitching indignities in the
Crosshairs of Bayard and Baxter
Weaseling into the lower ranks
Of the General Men, of the
General Phalanxes—
A horseshoe as admission.

The fallen Babylon being
Remnants of those gentrified watering holes
Still home to skeletoned
Carhartt but Alien to such pale
Faces.

Erupting cocks and breasts and all that
Has been cut, spliced, or spatchcocked between,

Because eye bags are back!
And so are unemployment benefits
And so are the slums
And so is XXXXX XX XXXX XXXXXXX
And so Is that lippy vocal fry
And so is Nicorette
And so is incest
And so is age play
And so is pregnancy
And so is al that provokes the provocative
To deliberate upon these TV-minded Philistines.

Whisper in my ear and
Put your tongue back in your fucking throat.
Write me something in script,
Rhyme to revive Mr. Whitman.
Give back the Grandmother her cane.

Bio: Josh Ilano is a New York-Based Writer and Journalist currently pursuing their undergraduate at Pace University. Josh’s poetry and creative nonfiction has been featured in the literary magazine Aphros. They were previously the Arts and Culture editor of the collegiate newspaper The Pace Press, and currently holds a position on their executive board. Independently they publish on their Substack “Dillinger,” and asides from writing, they freelance with Columbia University’s Directing MFA program. Josh aspires to buy their motherproperty in Nebraska one day.

Bargaining

Forgive this island. Its spoiled midnight.
Its damp moon. Its black surf, an altar

seducing you. This is your life.
Your youth, a goldfish in a glass bowl.

Record the ocean’s rhythmic pulse for your grandmother.
Go. Gather the stillness in your fists.

Your hungry limbs. Cage your pulse. Slip into the Pacific.
Allow the sharp tooth of the sea

to graze your bare legs. Let Fatima’s gold hand gasp
against your neck. Ignore her.

These days, she barely listens to you.
These days, she’s less pendant,

more noose. Still, the surf wrinkles
under that tart, black sky.

Fashion yourself into a sponge
and float like a plank.

There is honor in granting a crisis permission
to swallow you whole.

To spit you back out into that chocolate-dipped surf.
Kerosene-drum heart.

Curdling in a wet purgatory thousands of miles
from home. Imagine your grief inverted.

Your grandmother’s porcelain legs
with no sign of shatter.

Stitch them back together
with the black thread of your hair.

You’ll try, won’t you?

To recreate that teacup elegance.
What’s a holiday you can’t savor?

You, sourpuss.
You, spooky and spooked.

Pretend to be weightless.
No gravity.

No legs.
Just the velvety surf.

inviting you to forget.

Autumn Requiem 

Our final October is the alarm clock’s keen.
You, with your proud surgeon’s hands, spin a trip as solution.
You contort the spine of our Metro-North tickets,

disguise errant jewels of conversation
as balm: mulled cider, an unimportant NPR podcast, my father’s birthday.
Those hard-earned pebbles of connectivity.

See, we still belong to one another.
The stiff wind at Storm King bites our cheeks red.
I love you like an earthquake loves its faults.

We trudge to Louise Bourgeois’ Eyes and pose for pictures.
We’re from the city, I say, by way of apology.
Maple leaves litter the ground: scarlett, orange, yellow.

I envy nature its luscious unburdening:
an annual, expected implosion.
My pupils inhale the map of your form, counting the years

I have charted. We, overgrown. It’s inevitable:
a scalpel dividing the inventory of our lives.
The erasure of shared language; the blurry concert tickets,

the bone-white tube of Crest no longer serving two.
You still have my copy of Kitchen Confidential,
nestled in the wooden crib of your bedside table.

I’ll buy you a Santoku knife in Tokyo, you’d promise.
You meant it then. In a past life, who were we to one another?
You, a mushroom of salt, dreaming in the Dead Sea.

I, the water, painting your crystals with my tongue:
erosion veiled as affection. Nothing survives here,
but oh, it was beautiful. How we’ve morphed now:

just two boxers, sheathed in metal,
circling the ring: each beginning to mourn
the other’s shadow.

Bio: Hailing from Virginia, Insiya Taj is a South-Asian American poet and healthtech professional. For the last decade, New York City has been her home. In August 2024, she was a featured poet for the “Embracing Every Hue” reading series curated by Darius Phelps. She is the winner of Brooklyn Poets’ 2024 Yawp Poem of the Year Contest.

Part I –
June 2018: Palestinians protested at the border for the 70th anniversary of the Naqba (catastrophe) which signified when Israel forced hundreds of Palestinians from their homes. These protests went on for months. Layla was number 59

We are trapped inside *** an open air prison.
***** The only safe place / is within the womb /
Inside the womb, a fire burns, knowing what it once carried,

*********************************************************************** has left the earth.

Oh mamma of martyrdom/17 year old/not quite girl/but barely woman,
whose second born Layla, is named ‘beauty of the night.’

You ask, is it too much? for your second to be laid next to your first, who burned to
death, _{from a small flame}, that lit the dark room
******************There has been no illumination in your eyes,
since the souls that you held inward, have continued,
********without your reach.

Even when we light a candle, it s W a l l o W s someone.
Even when the baby cries
for its’ mother,
or in search of her, it g a s p s soon after.
There is no wrinkle of remorse
from those who turned off the lights,
from those who aimed
at the smallest human.

All that she did was protest
*** silently, *** rightfully, *** peacefully
for their freedom. *** For our truth *** that we have hide
behind, *** but do not walk ***** in ***** front ***** of.
We are no martyrs, just watchers.
The daughter of the night
was not born for battle,
just born within the battlefield.

Layla, eight months old,
one hundred sixty nine days***** 1 6 9
in a war zone.
*** Eyes cracked O p e N ********** as she searched for her mother ********** one last time;
Only to return back
to the One that created her, and her mother’s soul.
She awaits His Gardens,
where she will meet her brother.
and he will touch ********** her tender face ********** for the first time.

Part II –
Brown women can’t leave,
can’t go back,
Back like black;
when black women
couldn’t have babies;
Couldn’t have babies
like unarticulated birth control
masked as immunization.
No black babies,
always an enigma.
Black woman
can’t have baby;
Baby stays with God;
God then welcomes back
brown baby;
Brown baby
that died alive;
Alive are the mothers’ screams;
Alive is the non-violent protest;
Alive are those in cages.
Cages contain our people;
People were once our babies,
Caged are the babies;
Babies die before
they enter the womb;
Babies die after
they exit the womb;
The womb is
the only safe prison;
The only prison
that has mercy.
Womb in Arabic is rehm,
rehm derived from
its’ root RA HA MA;
Ra ha ma then
becomes rehma;
rehma means mercy;
Maybe mercy is taking
the life of a baby,
so they don’t
have to go from
prison to cage;
Maybe mercy
is not letting
black babies
exist in the womb
in the rehm.
Because outside
the rehm – everyday
they will die —
a slow death.
Death is the
brown baby
on the news;
Death is the
final cry of
their mothers;
Death is living
in the realm
without feeling;
Maybe death,
death is life.

***

Fariha Tayyab is a multidisciplinary artist hailing from Houston. As a writer and photographer, her work revolves around the themes of identity and social justice. Fariha’s poetry and creative nonfiction are published in a variety of journals and publications. She has facilitated workshops with many programs, including the University of Iowa’s International Writing Program. Fariha has received awards and grants for her artistry, mentored emerging artists, and built community through local organizations.

15.
Life itself signed
The pock-faced earl
Sitting and looking down and straining over the atlas
As diapers climbed out a cloud, and dubbing over his chains,
“I understand ALL TOO WELL what you mean! Understanding while on
foot kills me instantly.
And that has dangled in its dullness for so long
we need the threat of violence to sense our attachment. But this value was
never dull.
As diapers climbed out of a cloud.”

16.
A treble clef entered the vault with a baby hung from the teat
A hand of circus fire was making sexy flamingos in the air ==
“all this—she lowed—where hair would be”

For it is a friend like me who ever haunts me and at the surface feeds me
the poison of everything I am to see otherwise—

*

Farnoosh Fathi is the author of Great Guns (Canarium Books) and the forthcoming Granny Cloud (NYRB Poets) , editor of Joan Murray: Drafts, Fragments, and Poems (NYRB Poets) and founder of the Young Artists Language and Devotion Alliance (YALDA). She lives in New York.