Pride Poems spotlights LGBTQ+ poets from the greater Washington, DC region, by releasing a new video each day during the month of June, in honor of National Pride Month.

In 2024, Pride Poems selected thirty poets from the nation’s capital reading Tributes: original poems written for, about, or in the style of someone the writer admires—someone famous or not. Responding to the theme in creative ways, the project includes poems inspired by other poets (such as Essex Hemphill, Adrienne Rich, Joy Harjo, and Pat Parker) as well as poems for actors, musicians, painters, even Barbie and Ken dolls. There are odes, a haibun, and collaborative forms, written in a wealth of styles that are a moving testimonial to the ways queer writers are influenced and inspired.

  1. “Valuable weight” by Marlena Chertock

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    Valuable weight
    
 					after “Stubborn Ounces” by Bonaro W. Overstreet
    
 
    
They’ll tell you
    
you have to change,
    
fit in, can’t be
    
caring for others
    
your whole life,
    
need to focus on you.
    
 
    
They’ll say stop caring
    
about anyone else
    
but yourself, otherwise
    
you’ll be trampled on.
    
They say you can’t
    
make a living
    
 
    
out of anything
    
you love —
    
that’s not
    
true work.
    
Take
    
up
    
space.
    
Don’t move
    
over for them,
    
don’t budge
    
on your convictions.
    
Choose carefully
    
 
    
where you put
    
the stubborn ounces
    
of your weight.
    
Press
    
your
    
finger
    
 
    
into the earth —
    
see the indentation
    
you leave?
    
Your stubborn
    
weight matters, you
    
weigh as much as you need
    
 
    
to, you beautiful
    
mesh of stardust,
    
you add
    
valuable weight
    
to this world.
    

    Marlena Chertock is a disabled, lesbian, Jewish poet with two books of poetry, Crumb-sized: Poems (Unnamed Press, 2017) and On that one-way trip to Mars (Bottlecap Press, 2016). She uses her skeletal dysplasia as a bridge to scientific poetry. Her poetry and prose has appeared in AWP’s The Writer’s Notebook, Breath & Shadow, The Deaf Poets Society, Lambda Literary Review, Little Patuxent Review, Paper Darts, Paranoid Tree, Washington Independent Review of Books, WMN Zine, Wordgathering, and more.
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    Marlena Chertock is a resident of Takoma.

  2. “After Cavafy” by Bernard Welt

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    After Cavafy
    

    I like Scott.
    
Jeremy is a perfect dear.
    
Tim is amazing.
    
Allen I could live without altogether.
    
Martin is up to something.
    
Seriously, I don’t know how Johan does it.
    
Jim is in for a big surprise.
    
Alistair’s very connected, you know.
    
I really don’t know what’s to become of Alberto.
    
Karl will grow out if it.
    
Steven went to one of those private boarding schools, so it’s like . . . y’know . . Colin — I mean, where do you start?
    
Nelson’s been at this a long while.
    
I wouldn’t trust Destry in a dark corner.
    
Daniel shouldn’t have but of course he did.
    
Look, I adore Ellis, but really…
    

    Franklin has an opinion on everything, and unfortunately, he’s usually right.
    
I don’t know what they expected when they named him Roy.
    
Oh yeah, Walter. Again.
    
Calvin has a certain quality, don’t you think?
    
I can’t wait to hear what Antonio has to say about this.
    
I don’t think Wayne has any idea.
    
Wes likes ‘em young and pretty.
    
Um … Billy. Well, uh . . .yeah.
    
Henry? If I did, I’ll never tell.
    
If Bob would get off his ass once in a while, he could conquer the world.
    
Reggie’s one of those people who … well, I don’t know what.
    
Lester? I wouldn’t piss on him if his hair was on fire.
    
Trevor is just such a lovely person. That’s his whole problem, really.
    
It’s terrible about Howard but honestly, he brought it on himself.
    

    Bernard Welt’s poetry has appeared widely in journals, art catalogs, and anthologies including The Best American Poetry. He started his education in poetry at the Mass Transit open readings and the Folio Books readings in Washington, DC, and in The Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. He has received a US National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writers Fellowship and a Lambda Book Award nomination.
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  3. “a woman left lonely” by Jane E. Palmer

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    a woman left lonely
    

    as the story goes
    
heroin killed Janis
    
but that story is
    
incomplete
    

    too simple
    

    in san francisco,
    
2000 miles from her
    
Texas hometown
    
she found kindred spirits
    

    she fell in love
    
with the stage
    
and women
    
and men
    
and southern comfort
    
and getting high
    

    she carried her
    
first loves
    
with her
    
on tour:
    
bags of books,
    
including, always,
    
her battered copy of
    
Lady Sings the Blues.
    

    this beautiful soul,
    
who was kicked out
    
of choir as a child
    
because she was
    
too much
    
too loud
    
too wild,
    

    became a lead singer
    
with a voice that
    
was unforgettable
    
and sad
    

    this brilliant mind
    
let her heart
    
feel
    

    and
    
that night
    
at the landmark hotel
    
she was buried alive
    
by an insatiable
    
desire
    
for the
    
unattainable
    

    Jane Palmer is a professor, activist, writer, and part-time MFA student at American University. She writes poetry, creative non-fiction, picture books, and academic articles. She spends her screen-free time searching for the best playground ever with her 6 year old, sewing, hanging out with friends, traveling, and dreaming of a world without violence.

  4. “Sweet Lorraine” by Malik Thompson

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    Sweet Lorraine
    

    “My Lord calls me. He calls me by the thunder. I ain’t got long to stay here.”
    
— Lorraine Hansberry
    

    Your radiant smile can thaw      hearts
    
As swiftly as it   freezes
    
Such loneliness hidden                  Behind your eyes   Ocean depths
    
a loneliness
    
So deep   Sweet hymns flicker
    
In the mouths of ghosts &   Jimmy
    
Won’t be here   this evening  won’t            be here
    
To hold      the thunder
    
At bay   Your lion man—            his storm clouds swollen    clenched vow of August rain
    
Lorraine   it doesn’t explode
    
it doesn’t explode
    
it doesn’t explode
    

    Malik Thompson is a Black queer man from Washington, DC. His work is featured, or forthcoming, in The Cincinnati Review, Denver Quarterly Review, Sundog Lit, Diode, MQR Mixtape, Oroboro, Poet Lore, and other places. He has received support from Lambda Literary, Obsidian Foundation, Brooklyn Poets, Cave Canem, and other organizations.
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    Malik Thompson is a resident of Mt Pleasant.

    Previously appeared in Oroboro Vol. 8. Reprinted with the permission of Oroboro/Death Rattle.

  5. “Even The Farmers Pray For Coyotes Now: A Tribute to Folk Artist Willi Carlisle” by Blake Helene Cleve Mihm

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    Even The Farmers Pray For Coyotes Now: A Tribute to Folk Artist Willi Carlisle
    

    If America had a bulletin, Undesirables Weekly or something, and you flipped past all the queers, the Black and Brown folks, the unemployed uninsured uninitiated, right to the centerfold,
    
you’d find a teeny tiny picture of a coyote.
    
The so-called Arch Predator of our Time, victim of all you can hunt specials past and present, the germ warfare mongrel itch of strychnine, stacks of acme catalogs brimming with new ways to earn bounties against fur left to rot.
    

    But last night I lay in bed pondering the future with apocalyptic doom, and a single quivering trill echoed through my window, swelled into a choir, song heard coast to coast, a herald to open our golden eyes wide and rouse a lesson in resilience from the poster child of pestilence:
    

    They may witness our pain but do not let them forget how beautifully we sing.
    

    Oh Old God Coyote,
    
give me hunger,
    
for a world big enough to hold
    
all the wiley ass acting Gods,
    
to silence the bans brought in, our bodies
    
called a sin,
    
laws that make varmints
    
of us all.
    

    Boy
    
I sure wish I knew what the auguries foretold.
    
Must I hold onto an ovary, keep my bones
    
from shattering in case they outlaw
    
my manhood.
    
Wherever we end
    
up, my fellow rabble rousers,
    
when I die, it will be
    
reparably and redeemably at your side.
    

    Blake Mihm (they/he) is a nonbinary trans man. He lives in suburban Maryland with his two dogs, but his heart thrives in every bog he’s sunk his feet into. Their work has been featured in Lilac Peril, New Words Press, and Backwards Trajectory.
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  6. “Jewelweed” by Hiram Larew

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    Jewelweed
    
 
    
The first time I saw someone like me
    
       was on a farm —
    
There was a shagbark hickory overhead
    
And some wrapped up sandwiches somewhere
    
I believe
    
 
    
I was just starting to look at
    
	anything whistling
    
 
    
And as I recall he was wearing two strings —
    
	one in a knot around a wrist
    
	and the other
    
	around my dreams.
    
 
    
Fast forward to this moment in this city’s bustle 
    
	with stark stacked skies and 
    
	sidewalks that cram
    
	 
    
The more I try to figure out
    
        who’s me in the crowd —
    
	rings and bells —
    
	the more my eyes go beyond me.
    
 
    
And also there’s the difference between
    
	the outspoken grins I see today
    
	and those guesses of lips from long ago
    
	that opened me up like jewelweed —
    
 
    
The difference seems somehow wondrously between
    
	what might have been
    
	and now
    
	oh no never
    

    Larew’s poems appear widely.  His most recent collection, Patchy Ways, was released by CyberWit Press in 2023.  As Founder of Poetry X Hunger, he is bringing a world of poets to the anti-hunger cause.
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  7. “golden shovel poem (after lino anunciacion’s anchored, house fire II)” by Ishanee Chanda

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    golden shovel poem
    
					(after lino anunciacion’s anchored, house fire II)
    

    when tate is sleeping, i
    
find myself making a joke and a wish;
    
a joke that there is nothing more in this life to
    
dream of, and a wish that every light shift
    
in the room is the earth beckoning us into
    
eden. when gravity bends into her jawline, something
    
stirs inside of me. this bed is soft.
    
the blinds are pulled, and
    
eternity hums silent
    
like a small
    
prayer. is it enough
    
to love quietly, to
    
worship when there is sleep
    
in their eyes or hesitation under
    
their breath. the
    
question is if love is worth more in the shade
    
or out in the sun. we should ask this of
    
our lovers. what is your
    
last failure. where in your collarbone
    
do you keep your sorrow. for
    
how many years can we see the
    
end of this. can i rest
    
at home there, at the end of
    
this rope, with you. will you be my
    
everlasting peace. tate, you are the love of my life.
    

    Ishanee Chanda is a prose writer and poet from Dallas, Texas. She is the author of two books of poetry, oh, these walls, they crumble (2018) and The Overflow (2018). Ishanee enjoys Netflix marathons, making pasta from scratch, and shaking cocktails for other people. She lives in Brookland, Washington DC with her little family.
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    Ishanee Chanda is a resident of Brookland.

  8. “Ode on Motherhood” by Danielle Evennou

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    Ode on Motherhood
    
After Barbara Hamby’s “Ode on Dictionaries”
    

    A is for attempting your best
    
Bleached-out version of yourself
    
Calculating how long you can go without diapers, formula, sleep
    
Deprivation triggers depression, a dependable friend
    
Each time your child does something new and cute
    
Feel renewed, fake free-range parenting to form a connection with another human adult while your child plays in filth
    
Gestational diabetes test failed like the bar exam
    
High blood pressure tracked with an at-home monitor
    
Ice cream straight from the carton once the kid is asleep, mint chocolate chip
    
Just as soon as everyone is healthy again
    
Killer heartburn, pink eye, coxsackievirus
    
Lullaby sung with whatever note your lungs can muster
    
Mountain of laundry so high Spanx thongs are your only clean underwear
    
Nix nail appointments and nutritious meals
    
Opt for Oreos
    
Pee is something you mop up with the bottom of your sock
    
Queer identity concealed in WhatsApp parent groups, you cannot
    
Remember the last time you read
    
Something for pleasure
    
Tough like the patch of skin on the outside of your left ankle
    
Underwater but still breathing
    
Vacation is a
    
Waiting room at the dentist to
    
X-ray your teeth, loosened by hormones
    
You, just you, a rare thing to contemplate
    
Zestless and zagging toward the amazing zone
    

    Danielle Evennou (she/her/hers) is a writer who grew up in suburban New Jersey. For over a decade, she has kept herself busy by hosting poetry readings, workshops, and open mics in Washington, DC. In 2016, she founded Slipform, a writing workshop that explores gender, sexuality, and formal poetic structures. Her poetry and memoir appear in apt, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Dryland, and Split Lip Magazine. Her chapbook, Difficult Trick, was published by dancing girl press in 2017. With the help of therapy, she is learning how to calm the f*** down.
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    Danielle Evennou is a resident of Langdon.

  9. “Owls” by Robert L. Giron

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    Owls
    

    The scent of fresh basil
    
wet by the light shower
    
mixed with the aroma
    
of hyacinths imbue the air.
    

    Slowly night creatures
    
venture from their dens,
    
searching for wants, needs.
    

    Safe, the environs are lush
    
with life.
    

    The owls keep watch.
    

    Gradually, clouds move in
    
casting a pall,
    
deafening the din.
    

    Sentient,
    
the owls call out,
    
as two, four, six
    
are hauled away,
    
others hide.
    

    The scent of day and night
    
transformed into fear and ash.
    

    Now, the piercing owls’ vigil
    
wails the wake.
    

    All
    
—ready to take flight
    

    Robert L. Giron
    

    Robert L. Giron’s latest collection of poetry is Songs for the Spirit / Canciones para el Espíritu (Gival Press, 2023). He has authored five other collections of poetry and has edited five anthologies. His poetry and fiction have appeared in national and international anthologies among other publications. Born in Nebraska, he describes himself as a transplanted Texan, with family roots that go back over four centuries. He lives in Arlington, Virginia, with his husband Ken. An American of diverse ethnicities and trilingual, he describes himself as “just a man of the world” who can easily fit in with various cultural groups.
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  10. “East Florida” by Hailey Leithauser

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    East Florida
    

    Beneath the hazed moon, this 
    
  hazy absence of stars, 
    
how the hearts of the frogs 
    
  are breaking!
    
How they stretch and bloat 
    
  the fine elastic 
    
of their chests, and how 
    
  their bloated hearts 
    
are so greatly breaking.
    
  This night of camp-tent
    
swelter belongs to the frogs;
    
  the distant car rattling 
    
slowly home and the nameless,
    
  distant dog know 
    
nothing of barrenness, the lone 
    
  washer chuffing through 
    
the open door of the Laundromat 
    
  cannot muster an equal 
    
grief, so let us pause then to 
    
  give praise for the broad 
    
nostrils and the glottises of frogs. 
    
  Let us pause for the great 
    
and cupidinous faith that doles 
    
  and gravels in the swell of 
    
their thousand throats, in the gellant 
    
  swell of a thousand 
    
bulged and gibbous jowls.  
    
  Beneath the street lamps, 
    
the damp porches din with
    
  a stridulous passion; 
    
the car lots and darkened 
    
  surf stands echo 
    
with an unbroken desolation
    
  and hope, so let 
    
the vacant causeway crowd  
    
  with wheeze and jug 
    
and whoop, the slim alleys  
    
  hoarsen and gruff. 
    
Let us give loud and stentorian 
    
  praise for the gullets 		This
    
of frogs, that their maws 
    
  may widen, their dry 
    
lips bubble and their bellies
    
  spread. That they may 
    
throb and chirrup and croak 
    
  unendingly, unendingly, 
    
of strange and taintless 
    
  beauty, make of 
    
our portion proper melody. 
    

    Hailey Leithauser is a retired librarian living in Silver Spring, MD.  Her books are Swoop (Graywolf Press, 2013), winner of the Poetry Foundation’s Emily Dickinson First Book Award and the Towson Prize for Poetry, and Saint Worm (Able Muse Press, 2019). Her work appears widely in journals and anthologies including Agni, the Gettysburg Review, Poetry, the Yale Review and three appearances in Best American Poetry.
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    This poem first appeared in the Cincinnati Review. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  11. “Dear Pat Parker,” by Richard Hamilton

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    Dear Pat Parker,
    

    Inhuman haze of hospital stays.
    
By bouquet of nasturtiums wild,
    
and quills, for anodynes. A hardhead
    

    makes a soft behind. Or pious path
    
to galling verse, the sweat of
    
queer bells sway. For patent blue
    

    sedate of wings, the plowman
    
shepherd, fisherman. The fat of
    
judgement’s sounder days, when
    

    all for flesh-light heaven made.
    
A hardhead makes a soft behind—
    
the child and sickly, self-forbidden.
    

    The impetus for skyline, limned.
    
Or sun which turned those
    
harlot wings. No mastery in man’s great fall,
    

    if closer wed than to absolve.
    
A hardhead makes a soft behind.
    
O, Icarus. Parker to the partridge
    

    tree: admonish thee, impoverished staff.
    
A body, taint butts up against
    
another tainted body.
    

    Richard Hamilton was born in Elizabeth, NJ and raised in the American south. Hamilton holds degrees from Colorado State University, New York University, and the University of Alabama, where he earned an MFA in poetry.  Author of Rest of Us (Re-Center Press, 2021) and Discordant (Autumn House Press, 2023), his poetry has been published in Wry Press and is forthcoming in Obsidian Journal, Ocean State Review, and Lana Turner Journal.

    Richard Hamilton is a resident of Southeast.

  12. “For Gaza, For Palestine” by Danielle Badra

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    For Gaza, For Palestine
    
 
    
“If we must die, you must live and prevent the death of the rest of us. If we must be displaced, fleeing death, then you must prevent the displacement of all of us.”  – Bisan Owda
    
 
    
You are            I am watching a genocide and it isn’t the first time
    
watching         what my local news calls a conflict
    
it                       is not a conflict
    
and                   what exists between the river and the sea is apartheid
    
 
    
we are              I am on this side of the screen, the safe side,
    
living                in my home with my wife and my daughter
    
it                      this life feels false, false avocado puree painted on my baby’s
    
                         joyful face
    
and                   reality is ground bird feed for an orphaned boy trying to feed
    
                         his siblings
    
 
    
for                     the world is witnessing the horrors of hatred manifest
    
humanity          is hungry, is scarred, is demolished, is scared, is displaced, is
    
                          dying, is dead
    
and                    to a million voices screaming into the night and through the
    
                          day for their lives
    
existence           the right to exist is fickle in a time and a place that is
    
                           relentless
    
 
    
you should         keep your eyes open because you can and you can
    
not                      forget the blood painted faces of fathers carrying their
    
                           cloaked children
    
get tired             only when the keys are returned to the people and their
    
                           ghosts are full
    
of it                     of the food and the freedom they were deprived in life, only
    
                           then will we rest
    
 
    
 
    
 
    
*The language in the left column is also from Bisan Owda.
    

    Danielle Badra is the Fairfax County Poet Laureate (2022-2024). Her poems have appeared in Mizna, Cincinnati Review,Duende, The Greensboro Review, Split This Rock, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, and elsewhere. Dialogue with the Dead (Finishing Line Press, 2015) is her first chapbook, a collection of contrapuntal poems in dialogue with her deceased sister. Her book, Like We Still Speak, was selected by Fady Joudah and Hayan Charara as the winner of the 2021 Etel Adnan Poetry Prize and published by the University of Arkansas Press.
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  13. “Ode to My Mother” by Jona Colson

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    Ode to My Mother
    
 
    
I remember how you taught me numbers.
    
 
    
Counting the trees and cardinals—one, two, three.
    
 
    
I remember how you loved me. I was your extra prince.
    
 
    
But where do extra princes go? Up? Down? Out on the limb?
    
 
    
I was learning to detach from the numbers and the prayers.
    
 
    
There is always despair in the body. Trauma wedded to bliss.
    
 
    
Today is no different than the day when your breathing stopped.
    
 
    
I was not good enough to let go and follow you. Here—
    
 
    
watch the sparrows in the oak. One, two, three.
    

    Jona Colson is Queer poet, educator, and translator. His poetry collection, Said Through Glass, won the Jean Feldman Poetry Prize (Washington Writers’ Publishing House, 2018). He has translated a full-length translated collection of poems Aguas/Waters by Uruguayan author Miguel Avero (WWPH, 2024). He is also the co-editor of This Is What America Looks Like: Poetry and Fiction from D.C., Maryland, and Virginia (WWPH, 2021). His poems have appeared in Ploughshares, The Southern Review, The Massachusetts Review and elsewhere. He is co-president of the Washington Writers’ Publishing House and edits the bi-weekly journal, WWPH Writes. He is a professor of ESL at Montgomery College and lives in Washington, DC.
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    Jona Colson is a resident of Dupont Circle.

  14. “Dad Says” by Roberta Beary

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    Dad Says
    

    It’s a phase that some boys go through but most don’t. Most don’t wear their sister’s lipstick and keep it a secret. A secret my brother knows is that I like kissing my best friend Esme who dresses in boy clothes. My best friend Esme who dresses in boy clothes is what Dad calls a phase some girls go through but most don’t.
    

    upside down
    
day
    
moon rising
    

    Roberta Beary identifies as genderfluid and writes to connect with the silenced. Their debut poetry collection, The Unworn Necklace (Snapshot Press, 2007), was selected as a Poetry Society of America finalist. They were awarded the Bridport Prize for Poetry in 2022 and were named as a Rattle contest finalist in 2023.
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    Roberta Beary is a resident of Petworth.

    Previously appeared in MacQueen's Quinterly, Issue 20. Reprinted with author's permission.

  15. “And They Look” by Tanya Olson

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    And They Look
    

    alike too Like my mother and I
    
look alike Every time we see
    
Junior on HeeHaw she notes
    
He could be family Big moon
    
face Crinkle eye smile Family
    
is like a string to my mother
    
Every member a knot Connected
    
but apart In heaven you will
    
recognize every knot on our string
    
and they will already know you
    

    One day my mother declares
    
she wants to be the woman
    
who sings backup and plays
    
tambourine for Culture Club
    
We have just gotten MTV
    
and still watch it like it is a show
    
Turn it on at the top of the hour
    
and sit there for 30 minutes
    
as the videos click by
    
Helen Terry I discover decades
    
later when we have the internet
    
and can wonder about a fact
    
and then find it My mother
    
long dead never searched the internet
    
My mother never sent an email
    
Helen Terry though is still alive
    

    Helen Terry is the big voice
    
in all the great Culture Club songs
    
Karma Chameleon
    
I’ll Tumble For You
    
I Know You Miss Me Blind
    
Hers is the voice that echoes
    
whatever Boy George sings first
    
I’m a man (a man)
    
without conviction
    
Hers is the voice that holds up his
    

    Progress is seldom a true story
    
Step up Slide back But my friend
    
Clark always likes to point out
    
You and I could spend whole lunchtimes
    
discussing whether Boy George
    
might possibly be gay We share
    
pronouns at the start of meetings now
    
but honestly I do not want to tell you
    
my pronouns Sirred in line
    
Brothered by security Hey guyed
    
at the store These moments
    
of slippage are pure butch
    
triumph Between the guess
    
the confusion the correction
    
I feel most seen
    

    I know how to watch MTV now
    
Know how to look up facts Have yet
    
to spend meaningful time with
    
my mother since she died Spotted
    
her in the highest row of a stadium
    
once She stood when I stood Sat
    
when I sat They call my name
    
and she pounds her hands together
    
like she is playing a tambourine
    
She shows up in my dreams but
    
we speak of nothing real I know not
    
of an afterlife or if we are gifted
    
some chance to live again In this
    
as in so many things I am a man
    
(a man) who does not know
    

    Tanya Olson lives in Silver Spring, Maryland. Her first book, Boyishly, was published by YesYes Books in 2013 and received an American Book Award. Her second book, Stay, was released from YesYes Books in 2019, and her third, Born Backwards, is newly available from YesYes Books in June 2024.
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  16. “gender euphoria as personal hyrule” by nat raum

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    gender euphoria as personal hyrule
    
					After The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
    

    fast travel offers an allure for my limbs especially,
    
throb as they do after three or four trips
    
up and down the block. but i imagine the ability
    
to evaporate, reconstruct myself at point B
    
in place of being seen in the wild. it’s not
    

    for a lack of craving the fresh air. rather, the look
    
of this body means i can only be woman when
    
i walk down the street; i lose the self i have
    
sculpted in her absence while my breasts still
    
dome and dart my ironic t-shirt for all to see.
    

    in actuality, gender is closer to an old forester
    
calling me a bright-eyed young man, bestowing
    
on me the masculine urge to spear a passing monster 
    
until it dissolves into blackblight, finished with a flourish.
    
gender is an arrangement of pixels on a screen
    

    dressed in sheikah armor dyed armoranthine,
    
a haircut i envy not only because mine won’t fall
    
like that, but also for the boyface it frames. the boy
    
in me is taciturn, but when i let him go too silent,
    
i fear i’ll never shake womanhood. i know i’ll never
    

    be fog, wish as i might to atomize these aching
    
hips and knees, to be perceived as pure water:
    
completely neutral. but is it so much to ask
    
that i might one day shed the skin of woman, be held
    
and holy in the wake of bright-eyed resurrection?
    

    nat raum is a queer disabled artist and writer based on unceded Piscataway and Susquehannock land in Baltimore. They’re the editor-in-chief of fifth wheel press and the author of you stupid slut (Dream Boy Book Club, 2022), the abyss is staring back (Querencia Press, 2023), random access memory (Bullshit Lit, 2023), and several others.
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    Previously appeared in Penumbra Online. Reprinted with permission by the author.

  17. “For Adrienne” by Jennifer Meneray

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    For Adrienne 
    

    Rich in color, heroine, your life established a feminism most overlook, 
    

    Reduced to a theorist, I fear your poetry has long been forgotten, 
    

    Go fearless when diving into the wreck exploring hidden truths with fierce curiosity, 
    

    Interpretation is subjective, we are missing the point. 
    

    In the evening, the city converses on a hunger that grows beneath dampened spirits, 
    

    The lioness states with complex confidence– what was, is; what might have been, might be. 
    

    The demon lover ponders what beckons a second sight at twilight while the eye reviews hubble photographs: after Sappho.
    

    You spoke lavender to the hearts of menace leaving them archaic, 
    

    Pieces of the lesbian continuum have caused disdain, 
    

    don’t flinch, you said, 
    

    The observer, waking in the dark, asks “aren’t continuums endless?” 
    

    The stranger adds, “evolving with time, a lesbian continuum, would continue resistance.” 
    

    The song sings, “they live indirectly in every lesbian heart…” 
    

    And I, I bring my tigers to speak what ghosts can say. 
    

    Sincerely, 
    

    Aunt Jennifer
    

    Jennifer Meneray uses writing as a means of self-expression and self-healing. As a lesbian feminist, she explores the themes of equity, inclusion, liberation, and empowerment. Her goal is to encourage others to use art as a form of expression that empowers them to be authentic and unapologetic in their existence.
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  18. “Demuth In Lancaster” by Dan Vera

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    Demuth In Lancaster
    
There is a crusade against vice in Lancaster…I am going home to speak for vice. Charles Demuth (1883-1935)
    
Sugar vein flower lover.
    

    You arose from your mother Augusta’s garden,
    
to draw the world precise and alive
    
that perfect geometry of this city
    
its factory lines abstracted,
    
the pulsing curve of tulips and apples
    
red cabbage and rhubarb alongside the revelation
    
of warmer flowers in the steam baths of New York,
    
the mystical codes of numbers and sky,
    
everything came alive in you.
    

    Deem, how amiable was your laugh
    
to charm the bitterest of artist hearts—
    
even Georgia O’Keefe the scowl loved you
    
and William Carlos prized you so
    
for your generous embrace.
    

    You seem all but forgotten now
    
even on the brick streets of the city you returned to,
    
Where you spent your last days with the needle and the brush.
    

    At King and Duke streets, your house is a museum now,
    
Your watercolors, blossoms of petal and flesh
    
hang in sight of Augusta’s Victorian flowered rows,
    
The fruit, the vegetable, the silo, the cityscape,
    
in the front room,
    
the nudes in the darkest corners
    
standing as you found them
    
gleaming in their wet caverns of joy.
    

    Dan Vera is an award-winning writer, editor, and literary historian living in Washington, DC. The author of two poetry collections and co-editor of Imaniman: Poets Writing In The Anzaldúan Borderlands, his next book of poetry will be released in 2025 from FlowerSong Press. His poetry appears in various journals, anthologies, and academic curricula and in the Library of America’s Latino Poetry anthology out this year.
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    Dan Vera is a resident of Brookland.

    © Dan Vera

  19. “sing me at midnight” by Andy VanDoren

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    sing me at midnight
    
					for/after Wilfred Owen
    

    the dawn of spring is a memory
    
     buried with the past, salted with the earth
    

    silent, where once day broke
    
     in song, and not spirits nor on bones.
    

    dead boys in their dusk, on their way
    
     to you, with your murmurous heart,
    

    a chord concealed under cloak of
    
     midnight, a future unexhumed.
    

    Andy VanDoren (the pen name of a local artist) is a queer, synesthetic poet inspired by natural phenomena. Themes of their work include abstracting reality and unreliable narrators. Through poetry, they paint pictures of how the world looks from inside their mind. They are published in Celestite Poetry, Lavender Lime, Ink Drinkers, and more.

    Andy VanDoren is a resident of Brookland.

  20. “Barbies and Kens” by Keith David Parsons

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    Barbies and Kens
    

    With Chrysta, we played
    
house with her Barbies; or searched
    
the pine woods for mushrooms;
    
built a fort on the hill of shadows.
    

    Her mother’s name was Barbara
    
we all went to the same church
    
the Navy husbands played paintball
    
and shared their purple welts.
    

    Barb starred as Red Riding Hood
    
in the community theater’s Red vs. the Wolf
    
another husband, not hers, the lupine
    
co-star, and I, a deer.
    

    “Do you want to kiss me?”
    
Chrysta’s note was forward for ten;
    
and I dithered, at eight – but
    
eventually checked “yes.”
    

    “She’s learned her mother’s wiles!”
    
my mother fumed, privately
    
when I told her of the awkward peck
    
as twitterpated as sparrows in spring.
    

    Only years later did Mom tell me
    
of the grownup tryst that roiled the church
    
between the titular stars of the play
    
with their predatory roles reversed.
    

    They moved to England shortly after;
    
re-based by the Navy, it was said.
    
My first kiss faded like naked
    
plastic, smooth-chested
    

    and blank-crotched; 
    
a Ken-of-the-Woods
    
sinking into the shadows
    
and needles of pine.
    

    Keith David Parsons is a person who came from West Virginia, lives in Washington, DC and is less conflicted about it than you might think. Parsons is a member of DC Poetry Collective; and was featured in iNK BLOTS, Vols. 1 and 2.
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    Keith David Parsons is a resident of Lanier Heights.

  21. “Planting the seed” by Jose Gutierrez

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    Planting the seed 
    

    Someone plants a seed
    
With the hope that
    
Someday it will grow
    
And give fruit
    
 
    
This is what activist is,
    
We are the results of dreams
    
That many years ago
    
LGTQ+ people planted
    
 
    
Everything can not be done
    
By one person,
    
It’s a community work
    
 
    
Even thought when it is
    
Something small, it has to be done
    
With love and honesty
    
 
    
Focus the energy
    
In something positive
    
That will help develop
    
Our society
    
 
    
This is in memory of
    
Those who with so much
    
Work planted the first seeds
    
 
    
For those who were
    
Present creating space
    
And raising their
    
Hands for us
    
 
    
Thank you,
    
For the support, power,
    
Courage, passion and love to keep
    
Fighting.
    

    Jose Gutierrez holds a bachelor’s degree in Psychology from the University Ana G. Mendez in Washington, DC. Jose is a local and national long-time human rights and social justice activist, immigration advocate, Latinx LGBTQ historian, artist, writer and poet. In 2020, he founded the Jose Gutierrez Archives, which preserves the history of the DC LGBTQ Latino community.  He is also the founder of DC Latino Pride, and co-founder of the Rainbow History Project.
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    Jose Gutierrez is a resident of Petworth.

  22. “Dear Roe v. Wade” by Natasha Saje

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    Dear Roe v. Wade,
    

    What a mess you’re in, with red states    
    
eroding you like sand under a power  
    
wash of picky laws, turning back time  
    
to Texas, 1969. I feel for women   
    
in Mississippi, listening to a doctor lie  
    
that abortions cause breast cancer,   
    
 
    
and that the fetus can feel pain, 
    
women waiting at the only clinic in the state.
    
Dangerous, this “personhood,” this lie
    
extending to an embryo the powers
    
not accorded to the breathing women 
    
who care for and carry it over months.
    

    In 1973, I turned 18. 
    
I appreciate your gloss on “do no harm,”
    
on history: in 1787 women
    
were in this way less constrained by states
    
than corpses are today; they can be forced 
    
to give birth. For whom is that the truth?
    

    We’ve made the Constitution our true
    
guide, plus amendments carved in time:
    
liberty and privacy inherent rights 
    
for every citizen, even those as poor
    
as Norma McCorvey (Roe), whose statement
    
on the case reversed, pro to con, for women.  
    

    Yet privacy’s a cloud with women’s
    
lives hovering like drops of rain. The truth: 
    
so many tears. Thanks to DNA, the state
    
knows everywhere we go, and sometimes, when. 
    
If you had feelings, Roe v. Wade, you’d be blue,
    
but you’re a court case, judicial law, 
    

    one that even Sarah Palin knows.   
    
Irrelevance is cruel, and thinking women
    
feel their bodies occupied by menace
    
while living in our land of lies. 
    
I availed myself of you at 29  
    
and for access, I thank Maryland, my state.
    

    Personhood depends on power, and truth
    
changes like a woman’s chance to thrive
    
within her gendered state, her malady.
    

    Natasha Sajé was born stateless in Munich, Germany, and grew up in New York City and its suburbs. She is the author of five books of poems, including The Future Will Call You Something Else (Tupelo, 2023); a postmodern poetry handbook, Windows and Doors: A Poet Reads Literary Theory (Michigan, 2014); and a Pen finalist memoir, Terroir: Love, Out of Place (Trinity UP, 2020). She is Professor Emerita of English at Westminster University in Salt Lake City, and teaches in the Vermont College of Fine Arts MFA in Writing Program.
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    Natasha Saje is a resident of Cleveland Park.

    Previously appeared in The Future Will Call You Something Else (Tupelo Press, 2023). Reprinted with permission of author.

  23. “Someone Sang for Me” by Alex Carrigan

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    Someone Sang for Me
    
After Joy Harjo’s “A Refuge in the Smallest of Places”
    

    Someone sang for me and no one else could hear it.
    
I had to step outside to see if I could make out the words.
    

    The words took me back to rotting steps and
    
peanut shells scattered across the dusty porch.
    

    The dusty porch where I watched tall grass bend and sway
    
with the melody that creeped out of it on summer nights.
    

    On summer nights, I matched the rocking of my chair
    
with the whistles Nanny made with each sip of her bottle.
    

    Her bottles gathered by the side of her chair as she muttered and
    
hummed anything that came to mind, while cicadas provided backup.
    

    I’m backed up into this memory now that I find myself
    
watching my own mother repeat these songs in her bed.
    

    The bed creaks as the song begins anew in my mind.
    
Someone sang for me and no one else could hear it.
    

    Alex Carrigan (he/him) is a Pushcart-nominated editor, poet, and critic from Alexandria, VA. He is the author of Now Let’s Get Brunch: A Collection of RuPaul’s Drag Race Twitter Poetry (Querencia Press, 2023) and May All Our Pain Be Champagne: A Collection of Real Housewives Twitter Poetry (Alien Buddha Press, 2022). He has appeared in The Broadkill Review, Sage Cigarettes, Barrelhouse, Fifth Wheel Press, Cutbow Quarterly, and more.
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  24. “Count Your Blessings” by Regie Cabico

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    Count your blessings, 
    
Essex Hemphill autographed inscription, 1994
    
 
    
I was 23 and a fledgling homosexual 
    
lost at Limelight. 
    

    Essex Hemphill 
    
who wrote of gay weddings 
    
and ballrooms 
    

    Essex Hemphill 
    
who named corruption in DC,
    
who lived with HIV, 
    

    and dismantled queerphobia 
    
by staging same-sex kiss-ins 
    
on church steps 
    

    That Essex inspired me 
    
to compose my Filipino rainbow narrative. 
    

    I don’t count my blessings 
    
but recount the unexpected goodnesses 
    
of the day: 
    

    Teachers who greet me with coffee, 
    
Students who tackle haikus with onomatopoeia, 
    
My nephew in his baby Yoda birthday bathrobe, 
    

    Shall I count the blessings I witness 
    
Or count the blessings I grant
    
*
    
Iona Senior Center 
    
Karin, a soprano taught the patients a canon  
    

    All things shall perish 
    
From under the sky 
    
Music alone shall live 
    
Never to die 
    

    Bill, a once-upon-a-time tenor sang a solo 
    
And wept 
    

    Karin wept 
    
Cecilia wept 
    
I wept 
    

    Weeping is its own music
    

    Did we weep at his intention or  
    
The fact that Bill never spoke but could sing, 
    

    Did we witness a blossoming
    
In radiant vibrato 
    
Or an operatic prayer? 
    
;
    

    Days zoom,  a self-steering 
    
Tesla car on New York Avenue 
    
Crashing into Wendy’s
    

    I want to stay 
    
in the belly 
    
Of a birth canal 
    

    I want to stay an idea 
    
or polished icon 
    

    Poems published
    
work done 
    

    I don’t feel ready for the world 
    
Masked in black brow frames,  
    

    Camouflage covid mask 
    
Smudging my lenses, 
    
my discontent breath, 
    

    Survivor still 
    
in a city with a disgraced Popeyes 
    
Chicken franchise
    

    Full of rats running 
    
through floorboards, 
    

    Anti-Vaxxers 
    
Busboys & Poets open micers
    
Pontificating misinformation,  
    

    shivering syllables of  no, no, no 
    
shaking every bone of me 
    

    Sunlight is snipped 
    

    I am enveloped by shadows
    

    Essex, help me count my blessings… 
    

    Regie Cabico is the first Asian American and openly queer poet to win the Nuyorican Poets Cafe Grand Slam and is the Executive Director of A Gathering of the Tribes. His collection of poetry, A Rabbit in Search of a Rolex was published by Day Eight Press in 2023.  He is the Kennedy Center for The Performing Arts slam poetry teaching artist and publisher of Capturing Fire Press.
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    Regie Cabico is a resident of Union Market.

  25. “Aubade with Grain, Gold, and Feather” by holly mason badra

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    Aubade with Grain, Gold, and Feather
    

    Morning touches the cottage window.
    
We wake to the sound of cows grazing—
    
this idyllic pastoral.
    

    We are learning to listen
    
to each other’s silences.
    

    To ease the landscape
    
of the mind.
    

    Two calves touch heads,
    
siblings whispering.
    

    Their bellied songs hold us
    
where we are gazing.
    

    Horses at the fence
    
flex their muscles,
    
hooves in the grain.
    

    The word pasture sounds like pastor.
    
I have better experiences with the first.
    

    The barn cat drops a feather at the door.
    
What was once in flight
    
is now grounded.
    

    I recall the angel figurine
    
in the flower display at Baba’s funeral.
    
Her wings lined in gold.
    

    I kept the small statue
    
to remind me of Baba’s
    
all-encompassing calm.
    

    A feather of a man.
    
Light, soft, ephemeral.
    

    Radiant, too, like the peacock’s plumage,
    
and a sense of majesty to match.
    

    The angels of my childhood
    
are tarnished with exclusion.
    

    I’ve met earth angels since then.
    

    The woman on the metro
    
empathizing with me
    
after a night gone not so right.
    

    My nephew
    
when he offers me a kiss without request.
    

    My beloved
    
who reminds me to be here now.
    
She says, “Don’t go down the rabbit hole.”
    

    Return.
    

    *
    

    A bird has built a nest on the deck.
    

    I open the door—
    
small chirps asking.
    

    We are all born
    
with this soft hunger.
    

    Hold it in your hands.
    

    Holly Mason Badra received her MFA in Poetry from George Mason University. Her work is published in various journals. As a Kurdish-American poet, her recent projects focus on highlighting Kurdish women writers. She is the Associate Director of Women and Gender Studies at GMU.
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    Previously appeared in Meridian. Reprinted with permission of Meridian.

  26. “Gracias Pedro Zamora” by Adrian Gaston Garcia

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    Gracias Pedro Zamora
    

    In the summer of ‘94
    
With stolen cable
    
You entered our living room 
    
Our bodies spread across carpeted floor 
    
With rug burn staining our elbows and knees
    
We watched you 
    
Our eyes glued to the screen. 
    

    Your perfect hairstyle
    
Like the models in barbershop posters and magazines
    
Brought butterflies to my tummy.  
    

    Your bushy eyebrows
    
Matched my own
    
So much so that I started to love them. 
    

    Your contagious smile
    
Would spread across my own face
    
And no matter how hard I tried, 
    
I could not hide it away. 
    

    Your accent gifted me giggles
    
It shared the same sounds of family members whose tongues
    
Also spoke Spanish 
    

    You looked familiar 
    
So I would make believe 
    
That somehow we were cousins
    
That in a few years, when I got older, 
    
I would look like you. 
    

    And without even knowing it, 
    
Seeing you 
    
Helped me see a piece of myself. 
    

    I remember in that episode 
    
I found out that you were gay and had HIV
    
And at that time, being seven years old, 
    
I thought it was the same thing. 
    
As you talked out loud, about your life
    
I could barely understand 
    
But for some reason 
    
I felt that my very own secret was being exposed
    
So I learned to fear you.
    

    But the season went on
    
And both my crush and secret just kept getting bigger
    
You eventually won my heart.
    

    It was because of you that I first saw two men fall in love 
    
And get married
    
Celebrating with a wedding
    
That caused a lump to live in my throat. 
    

    When the news broke that you were sick
    
So did the lump 
    
That opened the floodgates 
    
I could not explain to 
    
The outside world 
    
because I didn’t want to be associated with you.
    

    I cried when they announced your death
    
For some reason, 
    
I thought I was supposed to meet you.
    

    I am not sure if you ever knew the impact 
    
You would have
    
How many other young gay boys you go on to inspire
    
Educate and save.
    

    I still get those butterflies in my tummy
    
Whenever I see your photo. 
    

    I know now that we are family
    
You were just ahead of the times.
    

    Adrian Gaston Garcia (aka AGG) is a queer Latine storyteller whose mission is to share narratives that build community. He currently lives in Washington, D.C. Adrian fuels his creativity via the performing arts, specifically theater, improv, and spoken word poetry. His work is largely based on his experiences and the intersectionality of his identities. It is a shout out to all the queer brown boys who choose joy as their form of resistance. Adrian is the co-host and producer of Los Bookis Podcast, a podcast for queer Latine bookworms who love queer Latine stories.
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    Adrian Gaston Garcia is a resident of Columbia Heights.

  27. “Bipolar Lady’s Prayer (to Dymphna)” by Casey Catherine Moore

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    Bipolar Lady’s Prayer (to Dymphna)
    

    Our sanity, who art in the clouds,
    
    shrouded be thy name,
    

    Insanity comes, it will be run,
    
    from the souls of your feet ‘til your mind’s undone.
    

    Give us this day our daily drugs,
    

    And forgive us for misunderstanding our wrongs,
    
    as we forgive those who misunderstand us.
    

    And lead us not into obsession,
    

    But deliver us from oblivion.
    

    Amen.
    

    Casey Catherine Moore is a bipolar, bisexual poet, writing coach, & educator. She holds a Ph.D. in CompLit from U of SC, focusing on Latin poetry, invective, & gender studies. Her first poetry collection, Psyche, is a mythology and disability-inspired retelling of the Cupid and Psyche myth (Anxiety Press). She co-produces/co-hosts Homo Stanzas, a queer poetry/comedy series, & Electric Euphoria, a queer and neurodivergent series, & hosts open mics at Busboys & Poets Brookland. Her performance credits include The Kennedy Center, Poetry Out Loud, The Nail Salon, Capturing Fire, & the 2022 Medicare for All Rally in DC.
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    Casey Catherine Moore is a resident of Cathedral Heights.

  28. “December 4th, 2022 at 8:59pm” by Rachel L. Dixon

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    December 4th, 2022 at 8:59 pm
    

    i’m on the bus headed home from new york
    
sitting next to my best friend 
    
we just celebrated her birthday 
    
and it was a beautiful weekend 
    
it always is golden surrounded by the love good friends provide
    
I don’t know whether its the bus that makes me melancholy
    
or being a permanent 7th wheel. 
    
I spent all weekend harmlessly flirting with their significant others 
    
we laugh about it 
    

    i sit on the bus and my friend cries a little
    
because her girlfriend lives in the city 
    
we don’t know when she’s going to leave me to go pursue her life up there
    
but she will 
    

    the level of anonymity generated from being another person in transit is freeing 
    
today I wandered through a neighborhood I might never see again 
    

    a prayer attempts to leave my lips here in the dark 
    
I want to fearlessly run towards the rest of my life
    

    I got a tattoo a few days ago 
    
my first one that isn’t hidden 
    
a stamp of approval for my own creative spirit 
    
I prayed to my grandmother before the needle met my skin,
    
Is it alright? 
    
					because it’s of some lemons 
    
					she had a lemon tree in her backyard when I was growing up 
    
					it grew lemons as big as your head
    
					juicy and sweet and when you have lemons
    
					you must make lemonade
    

    					the people who bought her house tore down the tree
    

    but she answered yes 
    
so it will live on me, forever 
    

    my birthday is next week, in just a few days 
    
I don’t know what this next year will bring
    
but I pray to my grandmother 
    
I don’t have any answers 
    
I’m trying to be okay with that
    

    Rachel Dixon is a theater artist local to the DMV area. She works as a teaching artist with Arena Stage, as well as the Managing Director for We Happy Few. Her other written work has been published in New York publication, TheaterHound.
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  29. “This Smile (after Mary Bowman)” by Chris Thomas

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    This Smile
    
After Mary Bowman
    

    This smile right here ain’t no accident.
    
On purpose is this smile.
    
Intentional, charismatic, focused,
    
This smile is sexy as fuck.
    

    Bare feet rooted in soil,
    
Ready for the world is this smile.
    
Ancestors rejoicing,
    
Wildest dreams coming true.
    
This smile is life everlasting.
    

    This smile has a past,
    
But is present with a future.
    
This smile exists!
    

    “Be determined,” said this smile.
    
“Ain’t nobody got nothing on you,” fervent is this smile.
    
“Yes, Mx. Cunty Hunty,” werk this smile.
    
“All I see for me is better days,” shouts this smile.
    

    This smile is affirmation.
    

    I know you love this smile.
    
Not as much as me.
    

    This smile is confident,
    
Learned to let go,
    
Is forgiveness,
    
Dances like no tomorrow.
    
Freedom is this smile.
    

    This smile is important,
    
This smile is kind,
    
This smile is smart.
    

    Looks in the mirror and sees my mama
    
This smile.
    

    I’m here alive with this smile.
    
I’m a survivor, fall to my knees,
    
give thanks for this smile.
    

    Never giving up this smile.
    
Unapologetic is this smile.
    

    Never turned its back,
    
Looks forward with this smile.
    
Grateful grateful grateful is this smile.
    

    I cried with this smile,
    
Became one with this smile,
    
Stopped pretending to
    
smile with this smile.
    

    I fought for this smile.
    

    I love this smile.
    

    By Chris Thomas
    
Copyright© 2023
    

    Chris Thomas is a Queer Black Non-Binary individual wielding words to champion Child Abuse Prevention, LGBTQIA rights, and Mental Health Awareness. Recognized by NUSPA in 2015, C. mesmerizes audiences as a performer and leads at venues like Angelina College, Georgetown University, Jefferson University, and Howard University. Collaborating with NVAFA and Carlyle House, they curate events celebrating African American excellence. Their workshop, Writing to Wellness™, empowers healing through poetry amid trauma. Advocacy spans educating adults on responding to Child Sexual Abuse and board service.
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    Chris Thomas is a resident of DC.

    Author of Reclamation; reprinted by permission of the author
See poems from: 2023 2022