Session Three Anthology
MENTOR: Emily O’Neill
i did this and my mouth no longer moves towards but
rather, the dirtied onset of and
i did this and my mouth no longer moves towards the huddled mass
rather, the cracked back of meaning trying to bleed out
an incision from the small of the wrist, and realize it doesn’t make
anyone feel better, so i let it out; a cascade, a huddled mass of
i did this
in fact, my actions after are broken and
imperfect, largely meaningless, tattered from the spine out;
sprawling bones with papery vertebrae crying, i am sobbing and
consequence is just another thing holding my throat against cement
hacking up blood from a broken tooth and liquid down the wrong pipe;
i have wanted / wanted / wanted for acceptance in my vocabulary
but this is just the death of sanity
Kaja Rae Lucas, a sixteen year-old trans poet, has written poetry for most of her life. She's a DC Youth Poet Laureate finalist, published in two literary magazines, and is constantly out to create more art and to make more of a mark on the world. She has participated in numerous poetry slams, including the DMV Words Beats and Life poetry slam, Capturing Fire queer slam, and the Baltimore Pride Slam. She's self-published five chapbooks online and in print.
When I Came Home
My nephew asked, “How did it feel to live in the snow?”
Felt like I was naked all the time.
Mother said she was fasting. Gave my sister
two slices of apple for breakfast. Told her to say grace anyway.
One of our own just got mugged last night.
A young girl.
It could have been worse.
My Facebook inbox was still full of unanswered messages.
Nobody realized I was away.
A stranger on the internet argued that Orientals tend to be attracted to whites.
Not the other way around.
My old friend teased, “How can you still see with those small eyes?”
A wooden cart full of rubbish. A father & son sleeping
on a cardboard bed. Nothing but their cracked hands as pillows
& the night, their blanket.
This was the sight of home back then, the sight of home now.
In the family prayer, my mother was grateful her son was still alive.
My father said his prayer in broken English.
I spoke mine in birdsongs & gunshot wounds.
I read somewhere that it takes the ocean & the moon
to erase your footsteps in the sand.
What if there is no moon tonight?
Jeddie Sophronius, born in Jakarta, Indonesia, is a senior at Western Michigan University, majoring in creative writing. He currently lives in Kalamazoo.