Pride Poems is honored to spotlight LGBTQ+ poets from the greater Washington, DC region, by releasing a new video each day during the month of June, which is National Pride Month. Each short video, 30 in all, features a single author reading their original work. The theme for 2026 is Urban Geographies: poems set in cities, that reflect city life and culture.

  1. “Public Intimacies (or an ode to the Mount Pleasant alleyway)” by mari fajnzylber

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    public intimacies (ode to the Mount Pleasant alleyway)
    

    

    snake behind my block
    

    and you’ll find:
    

    

    two stumpfuls of Maradona
    

    perfecting their perfect spirals
    

    for the next beautiful game
    

    (11:30 on Newton St, anyone)
    

    

    three sets of two wheels
    

    slicing the breeze around the sharp bend
    

    while a solitary four
    

    is inevitably sliced by the jagged bank of bins and cans
    

    

    a collection of pompous perfumes–
    

    september’s spools of jasmine
    

    cherry trees that blossom in march
    

    a housemate’s breakfast’s banana’s peel (year-round)
    

    

    the ooze of patio music
    

    parties that can’t help but spill
    

    

    our fellow urban dwellers’ endless parade
    

    scurrying downstream with their snout-led strut
    

    

    what else to do here but to walk
    

    trails tucked back into the neighborhood secret
    

    “shortcut” simply a term of endearment in these parts
    

    somewhere between saving time and losing it
    

    Mari lives in Mount Pleasant and tries their best to always listen to the birds.

    mari fajnzylber is a resident of Mount Pleasant.

  2. “Storm Wallops DMV Region” by Piérre Ramon Thomas

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    Storm Wallops DMV Region
    
Piérre Ramon Thomas
    

    “This is some serious cold that’s working its way on in here.” – NBC4’s Chief Meteorologist, Doug Kammerer
    

    Snow’s whisper
    

    from wisteria
    

    sky, in the hushed,
    

    newborn-sleeping
    

    moments before
    

    the crystal curved
    

    bowl upturns,
    

    glitters metropolitan
    

    sidewalks until diamonds
    

    bedazzle our boots,
    

    *                *
    
empties Giants’ shelves,
    

    buckles Chain Bridge’s knees.
    

    Salt trucks groan
    

    along I-295:
    

    capitalism takes
    

    no days off.
    

    *                *
    
But the snowstorm
    

    that capped
    

    the inaugural month,
    

    not a powdered-sugar dusting:
    

    freezing rain,
    

    on top of sleet,
    

    on top of snow
    

    choked the Beltway,
    

    englaciered cars
    

    shovels couldn’t break
    

    *                *
    
through, had to chisel
    

    our way out.
    

    Dainty Black gay
    

    prancing past men on P Street
    

    slipped on ice going
    

    to Spot of Tea.
    

    Piérre Ramon Thomas is an emerging Black queer writer whose themes orbit around family, gender, sexuality, queer love and erotica, nature—just to name a few. He is heading into his final year at American University pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing. Thomas has been published in the anthologies America’s Future and Capital Queer, has pieces published in or forthcoming from Vassar Review, Mid-Atlantic Review, WWPH Writes, and more. He is a native of the Washington metropolitan area and could be seen around the northern Virginia area trying new food, drinking white mochas, or meandering about national or state parks.
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  3. “Soul Bargaining” by Regie Cabico

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    Soul Bargaining  
    

    By soul, I mean the silver
    
that God has placed
    

    deep inside me. Its weight
    
runs through me like
    

    schools of dumb fish,
    
complicated as tiny buttons.
    

    Deeper than the plot twists
    
and tricksters I have rolled with.
    

    I cannot toss myself
    
into the East River
    
though my soul falls
    

    from heaven in a shower
    
of saxophone and smoke.
    

    I am lonelier than the iron rails
    
of this bridge, echoing the rush of taxi cabs
    
and planetary retrogrades.
    

    The moon is stuck
    
flat to the sky. The warehouses
    
are lit by flames of vodka.
    

    I am bargaining my soul
    
for the grace of crows singing
    
Between neon and this darkness.
    

    By soul, I mean in a hotel room
    
where I place my lips to the flicker
    

    of a candle, the light that knows
    
my secrets
    

    extinguishing the night
    
with its kiss. By soul, I mean,
    

    God make me a wind instrument
    
so I can toss myself into the East River.
    

    The street lamps are howling
    
for the first slivers of light.
    

    By light, I mean falling off a bridge
    
wrapped in the arms of a God
    

    who knows your name.
    

    Regie Cabico is the author of A Rabbit In Search of a Rolex (Day Eight) and the interim executive director for A Gathering of the Tribes in New York.
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    Regie Cabico is a resident of Union Market.

  4. “Tiffany, at Dusk” by Zac Jones Gomez

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    You don’t get to see
    
the moment that dew crystallizes
    
and becomes a carpet of diamonds
    
that shatters the night.
    
A shard of darkness caught
    
in my eye and when I blinked it
    
clear I was struck to see that
    
the stars had fallen to Earth.
    
The new streetlights are purple
    
and the diamonds shine coldly,
    
icy pinpricks of light that dance
    
in the mischief of their appearance.
    
Falling in love is taking a walk
    
in frigid inky twilight and watching
    
a field of gemstones bloom
    
where nothing grew before.
    

    Zac is a poet originally from Kentucky who uses writing in all of its forms to channel nature into healing. Through journalism, fiction, and poetry he hopes to bring personality and color to issues near to his heart. Since quitting social media, he has enjoyed more time to hike and explore his adopted city via any form of transit but a car.
    • Find Zac online:
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    Zac Jones Gomez is a resident of Cleveland Park.

  5. “She gave me COVID on our first date” by Marlena Chertock

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    She gave me COVID on our first date
    

    swore it was just allergies
    
as she sniffled in the passenger seat
    

    on the way to Urban Roast.
    
I offered to drive,
    

    put her apartment in Google Maps —
    
it was only a block away.
    

    We sat outside by a fire pit,
    
even though winter wasn’t quite through.
    

    The wind picked up, but the fire stayed lit,
    
blazing in her blue eyes.
    

    We talked about normal
    
first date topics —
    

    how we came out, our trauma,
    
if we want kids.
    

    Before the night ended, we were
    
sharing ideas for a second date.
    

    As we said bye in my car,
    
I didn’t kiss her,
    

    knew I’d see her again,
    
felt like there was no rush,
    

    no one’s timeline but our own.
    
And a 14-day quarantine
    

    after she tested positive for COVID,
    
then the two stripes appeared on my rapid test.
    

    I couldn’t walk
    
without getting winded,
    

    put hot sauce on my food
    
just for some sensation,
    

    slept for 16 hours and
    
was still exhausted.
    

    She got better quicker than me,
    
like she always does,
    

    her enviable immune system
    
(other than those very real allergies),
    

    tried to plan our next date
    
while I couldn’t taste,
    

    a snotty mess surrounded
    
by a mountain of tissues
    

    in bed, flailing feverishly.
    
When I finally recovered,
    

    after 16 days,
    
the dates never stopped.
    

    I think she did it on purpose,
    
infected me
    

    so no one else could
    
ever date me.
    

    Three years later,
    
she slept on a cot
    

    by my bedside while I recovered
    
from a hip replacement,
    

    somehow still sweet to me
    
at my grumpiest.
    

    And I returned the favor
    
by giving her the norovirus,
    

    holding back
    
my future wife’s hair
    

    while she threw up
    
in our new bathroom,
    

    in the house
    
we bought together.
    

    Marlena Chertock is a disabled, lesbian, Jewish poet with two books of poetry, Crumb-sized: Poems and On that one-way trip to Mars. She uses her skeletal dysplasia as a bridge to scientific poetry. She has had over 130 poems published in literary magazines and regularly moderates panels at literary conferences, facilitates writing workshops, and performs poetry at open mics and reading series.
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  6. “Finding the Right Words” by Nico Penaranda

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    Finding The Right Words
    

    Most things start just by circumstance. A decent day.
    
A bar on the way home from work.
    
Someone there
    

    playing banagrams. I joined them and shared words
    
from a pile like cave farts, noose.
    
Forming friendship. I wish it hadn’t
    

    taken so much time to try other things:
    
concerts at the 930 club, thrifting, moving in together
    

    One night, they leaned their head
    
against the normal tensity
    
of my body, and I unshallowed my breath.
    

    Connection is the shattering of space between all of us.
    

    Nico Penaranda is a writer and educator from the dc area. He has taught in Howard’s first year writing program since 2022, and he is a graduate of American university’s mfa in creative writing program. His poetry focuses most often on themes of race, rebellion, mythology, and music, and his most recent publications are featured in the Mid-Atlantic Review, Brigid Gate Publishing, and Mistake House Publishing.
    • Find Nico online:
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    Nico Penaranda is a resident of Petworth.

  7. “First Sunday in August” by Bianca Palmisano

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    First Sunday in August
    

    What spell do you cast for too much wanting
    
sickly sweet smell
    
empty stewpots
    
hollow bell ringing vespers chant
    
chest wide with
    
secret places inside yourself
    

    Hide them in
    
pockets of jean shorts
    
that don’t fit
    
a city that warbles
    
in the heat
    
wavvy asphalt
    
all of us melting into
    
the next liquid dream
    

    resurrection of a lost summer
    
licking popsicles on the Spanish Steps
    
service at the Friends house
    
lullaby on your recorder
    
that says the city is your backyard
    

    If you moved to the country
    
wheat stalks and dry dirt,
    
would it follow you?
    

    Bianca Palmisano is the author of two volumes of poetry: The Empty Spaces (2013) and Will This Be On The Final (2017). They are also a registered nurse, sex educator, and owner of Intimate Health Consulting, a business focused on training healthcare providers to offer better and more inclusive sexual health services. Bianca has been writing poetry for over two decades and has been featured in the Pittsburgh Post Gazette, Lilac Peril (Volume 00), and live poetry readings across the DMV.
    • Find Bianca online:
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    Bianca Palmisano is a resident of Columbia Heights.

  8. “On my Worse Days” by Brandon Blue

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    On my Worse Days
    

    I’m always imagining what is not: the bathroom light
    
is dawn, the dirty carpet the soil I kneel in waiting for wind
    
that will not come, the blinds,
    
a flight,
    
a flock,
    
a kit
    
of doves flutter from their rout holes and splat on the floor,
    
the corner of the wall are a lover’s lips and every cloud
    
is an ocean,
    
a mouth I hope will swallow me, drown the day in gray
    
so I go outside, try
    
to return things to their rightful place but the dogs barking
    
sound like jeers, the buildings sway and lean
    
precarious as children’s toys. The concrete’s cracks are my outline,
    
is my mother’s spine.
    

    Desire, you ever-watching eye, it is time to sleep
    
there can be no want in what has been made clear—
    
I am not supposed to be here.
    

    The sidewalk is so full of people knocking into each other
    
who have just stopped holding hands,
    
and the joggers, as they brush pass, are only ever the seventy-seven million
    
three hundred three thousand five hundred seventy-three americans
    
who voted for the 47th president
    
who split me up the back
    
who reduced me to a wind
    

    that twists in the eaves above my staircase
    
which can never be anything but a staircase that leads to my apartment
    
that cannot take me to safety.
    

    Brandon Blue is a black, queer poet, translator, educator from the D(M)V. Their work has or will appear in Foglifter, Frozen Sea, &Change, and more. His work has received the support from Tin House, Aspen Words, and the Virginia G Piper for Creative Writing. Their chapbook, Snap.Shot (Finishing Line Press) was named in Poetry Mutual’s Best Books of 2023.
    • Find Brandon online:
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    Brandon Blue is a resident of Cleveland Park.

  9. “Embraced” by Audrey Cahak

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    Embraced
    

    Sometimes
    
I take the red line
    
just to be underground.
    
In silence, in dreams’ projections,
    
swallowed by the Dupont mouth.
    
Returning, resuming
    
I let the long throat
    
take me down.
    

    Pacified in soothing hand
    
of rocking metal, rounded tunnel,
    
in gentle clasp of Brutalist knuckle.
    
I thread my way through
    
fingers of turnstile
    
As I am
    
handed down.
    

    A stomach; a womb; a shelter; a tomb.
    
The hurt and wounded
    
I am moving through aorta.
    
Sweet and sad
    
cells of every rusted color
    
Embraced
    
all
    
the
    
way
    
down.
    

    Audrey Cahak is a wordsmith and artist originally from Houston, Texas now living in Washington DC. She’s a photographer by day, a theater and dance reviewer by night, and a poet and painter when she can find the time. She is inspired by powerful femininity and the omens present in everyday life. Her work has been featured in Broadwayworld.com, The Words Faire, and the MidnightRose reading series.
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    Audrey Cahak is a resident of Adams Morgan.

  10. “Local Train” by Charlie Davies

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    When your arm brushes mine like that
    
it feels like I am on a local train in a dark tunnel.
    

    And in the nothingness
    
outside the window suddenly
    

    an express train comes into view
    
its interior glowing fluorescent white.
    

    In those moments I can see alternate lives,
    
alternate existences, running parallel to my own.
    

    The person sitting next to me shifts and I watch
    
their counterpart do the same, one track over.
    

    Your leg rests next to mine and
    
in another train somewhere beneath this city
    

    our lips meet each other,
    
your fingers run through my hair.
    

    Your eyes dart over your phone screen
    
but in another car, in another station
    

    they are locked on mine, sharing everything
    
I feel for you now.
    

    Charlie Davies is an emerging writer, artist, and naturalist originally from Takoma Park, Maryland. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Lilac Peril, Lit Shark Magazine, and How To Wait: An Anthology in Transition. He can often be found talking to birds in the woods or haunting your local coffee shop.
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  11. “Dumb Inheritance” by Angelique Palmer

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    Dumb Inheritance
    

    Of course, I should tell you about the storage units
    
a collection of memories behind the whine of metal door
    
I cannot collect courage enough to open again.
    
The ache I did not earn, but pay promptly for-
    
the resentful silence I’ve polished into a shrine.
    

    Of course, I should tell you about the storage units
    
the resentful silence I’ve polished into a shrine,
    
Lethargy lays like an heirloom quilt my family’s winters,
    
in each itchy stich; stained into unwanted
    
but heavy with sleepless nights.
    

    Of course, I should tell you about the storage units
    
but heavy with sleepless nights.
    
While mourning, I grew bone-deep fatigue,
    
jelly for legs, a breathless brunch
    
no part of me wants to sift through it
    
again and again and again.
    

    The box bottom’s sag into a pulp of almosts    on the third try
    
The guilt of donating the china she saved her checks for    on the fifth
    
A coat that still holds the weather of my big sister’s shoulders, the way I put it back in the crate
    
And purse faux leather combusting into a pile of disintegration.
    
again and again and again.
    

    Of course, I should tell you about the storage units
    
How my mother kept everything she used         to replace
    
everything she used to fill                                  the space left
    
when life took everything from her
    
How it was all left to me.
    
How I’m doing this too.
    
How this phantom company is so damned lonely.
    

    Of course I should tell you, of course I should.
    
The loneliness of wading through
    
a mine field of mold spores and memories.
    
Each box a clearing of my throat,
    
each label, a survivor’s remorse.
    
Contractor bags filled with mystery
    
photographs the way they sob decay in their frames,
    
how this split my living kin into splinters
    

    This is what was left for me:
    
not money, not land, but a legacy
    
of practiced evasion
    
a struggle to even visualize
    
the door’s groaning
    
like a siren song tsunami.
    

    So, of course, we should speak about how difficult it is to
    
continue.
    
Keeping what keeps me stagnant
    
–bone-deep tired, jelly for legs, wealthy in waste.
    

    Still, I carry the keys,
    
tell myself I will open it;
    
tell myself I will air it all out
    
tell myself I will set myself
    
free
    
soon.
    

    Angelique Palmer is a performance poet, Kindergarten Teacher, and Spoken Word instructor at Wilkes University. Author of two full-length books, she is a member of the 2026 Pride Poems Fellowship cohort and will serve as Fairfax County Poet Laureate until 2027.
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  12. “Not Going Quietly” by Peter Montgomery

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    Not Going Quietly
    

    “Another world is not only possible,
    
she’s on the way and, on a quiet day,
    
if I listen very carefully, I can hear her breathing.”
    
– Arundhati Roy
    

    I can hear a new world coming on the loudest days,
    
drummers thrumming heartbeats at the Pride parade,
    
go-go music’s energizing beats at a Free DC rally
    
at 14th and U, drivers honking appreciation.
    

    Screams of delight at the Halloween high-heel race,
    
solidarity singers serenading purged federal workers,
    
dance parties summoning courage and celebration
    
at the gates of gulags and centers of oppression.
    

    Bullhorns and boos aimed at architects and enablers
    
of authoritarian cruelties and brutal kidnappings,
    
righteously directed rudeness rousting them
    
from swanky strongholds and comforting cocoons.
    

    Decide now that you will not be quietly complicit.
    
Gather strength in silence if that is what feeds you.
    
Breathe deep, seek peace, find solid ground.
    
Exhale the joyful noise of liberation.
    

    Peter Montgomery is a researcher, writer, and activist who is relying on poetry, singing, and community to keep him grounded and human in the face of the cruelty and authoritarianism of the MAGA movement currently controlling our national politics. He is grateful for his loving husband, sweet dog, meaningful work, and family and friends near and far.

    Peter Montgomery is a resident of Brookland.

  13. “for a friend, for when despair is lounging on their chest” by tt santos

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    i roll up bible pages and u say
    
‘don’t bring those curses down on me.’ don’t play,
    
u been cursed! from the start, least from the day
    
u jailbroke ur soul, breathed river-clay
    

    to life. besides, don’t we got angels too?
    
what else u think i’m doing when i kneel
    
between ur thighs but worship? don’t it feel
    
like heaven in this hell ur burning thru?
    

    get up! the empire’s making us its bitch–
    
we need ur sorcery. dig up the streets,
    
churn through the sewer trash–let loose the Land!
    

    earthquake the obelisk, it’s made of sand!
    
no matter how these godfrauds beat their meat,
    
they’re roadkill ratsnakes–ur a crossroads witch.
    

    tt santos lives in Columbia Heights. She draws, paints, writes, tattoos, and cooks. She aspires to create work that insults the genocidally drab sensibilities of the hegemon.
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    tt santos is a resident of Columbia Heights.

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