Joshua Merchant
After Birth
the white man carries the gun.
the white woman guides
the Black matter to the bullet
and this catastrophe gives birth
to babies breath
and I question why the Black child
must be filler for the rest
of the bouquet
and I question the hands
holding the flowers.
a Black Boy is shot in the head.
the world is enthralled.
a Black Girl goes missing.
the proceeds might go to her funeral.
a Black Queer.
engraves themself.
a Black Queer.
Martyr.
A Black Queer.
Necessary.
In the back.
After the bus boycott.
look at the garden you white people
breathe in. smelling my cousin’s newborn
head before the guillotine.
you haunt with a deaf ear.
will name a cigarette Deantae
before smoking in the lobby
at our rap shows. I’m sure
you laugh
while picking
up your kids.
31 Years of Panic
I was taught to flush out a wound
by pouring salt into a cavity. Let it
sting until the pain numbed the burning
sensation of finding the knuckles my
great great grandparents got confiscated-
You know they used to do that by the way,
pick a limb as a souvenir. Life was never
a numbers game for me, and yet, I find myself
counting lost items- in the shower as I wash
my genitalia: “three”. On my bed as I moisturize
the largest organ of my body: “one”. Toes as I
put on a sock: “five”. I forgot my other shoe before
I left the house: “ten”. I trip over my own feet sifting
through my purse: “ten”. There’s a hair in my coffee:
“not applicable”. I pricked my finger on a weed
crowned by something fluffed like cotton: “one”.
I sucked the splinter out. “One”. All the words
on my tongue are red; “one”. The bathwater was
calm until a follicle dived, plummeted, eaten
by something I couldn’t see: “7,258 miles,
about 300 miles if you count me as cargo”.
Something tried to eat me in my sleep
before I woke up: “one”. I was mad
at myself before my hand burned
while frying dinner: “not applicable”.
I was mad and forgot I had teeth: “32”.
I was mad and remembered I have
another birthday coming up - “one”.
Joshua Merchant is a native of East Oakland exploring what it means to be human. A lot of what they explore is in the realm of love and what it means while processing trauma, loss, and heartbreak. They feel as though as a people, especially those of us more marginalized than others, it has become too common to deny access to our true source of power as a means of feeling powerful. However, they’ve come to recognize with harsh lessons and divine grace that without showing up for ourselves and each other, everything else is null and void. You can find their work in Anvil Tongue, Spiritus Mundi Review, Rigorous Mag, and elsewhere. They’ve had the honor to receive the 2023 San Francisco Foundation / Nomadic Press Literary Award for poetry.