YO MUVA

by Judy Juanita

Don't know Scott  Adams or his mother, 

Dilbert's done 

Yo muva

Don't know Tyre Nichols' mother

RowVaughn Wells wearing the shroud 

in Tennessee

(this week)

But to the five little pigs in black-skinned masks 

In Tennessee 

(this week)

Yo muva

Where is George Floyd's mother?

Where is she?

My God. Where is she?

Can such a body of water be found on a map?

"Your mama’s a whore, sucker,” Eldridge shouted at University of California, Berkeley in his last demented era
Yo muva

George Floyd begged for his muva
Long gone from this bitter earth

Tyre called for his muva
Three blocks away

The muva in me can't stomach 
one more investigation 
No more chest thumping
the muva in me won't last 
one more minute
Yo muva 
Yo muva
Yo muva
Yo muva

I told my grandson
 I HATE WHITE PEOPLE 
Then I qualified it. 
NOT ALL WHITE PEOPLE, NOT MY FRIENDS, NOT INDIVIDUALS, JUST THIS ROTTEN HOLLYWOOD-BASTARDIZED APPROPRIATED CULTURE THAT HAS GLORIFIED WHITE PEOPLE AND GIVEN EVERYONE PERMISSION TO EXTERMINATE US.
Permission to hold us on the ground and exterminate us like vermin

But that dresses up "the talk"
What I have to say
To the nth degree
Where karma waits like a volcano
Where the long arc of justice bends
And bends until it breaks
And gets repaired with Krazy Glue 
Where some Pope sits on a throne with a potty seat hooked up beneath his flaccid ass 
In between “the talks” about keeping his hands visible on the steering wheel
And being careful about predawn sneaky links in ritzy white neighborhoods

Is

Yo muva


Judy Juanita's semi-autobiographical novel about her youthful experience in the Black Panther Party Virgin Soul was published by Viking in 2012. In 2021, her short story collection The High Price of Freeways (Livingston Press, 2022) won the Tartt Fiction Prize. Her poetry collection Manhattan my ass, you're in Oakland won the American Book Award in 2021. She teaches writing at the University of California, Berkeley.

NORTH DAKOTA

by Carl Boon




See the snow, the fire
in the snow, a native girl
swinging through the cold.
See what happens
when the water cannons
finally turn away,
the steed retreat,
the acute limbs
of authority and order
look elsewhere.
Hear the temporary joy
of a mother, maybe
yours or mine; listen
as the wind keeps her
eyes still distant
from what we love
and often despise—
the shopping mall,
the restaurant, the news.
It is almost 1823, it is why
we write songs
that tremble in the gut
all-conquering,
that verb that needs
a thousand more
to make a story. Hear
empire’s sound
moving back again,
white hands, white
ears that finally listen
in suburban rooms
of a thousand books
and a thousand quaint
mistaken phrases.

Carl Boon lives in Izmir, Turkey, where he teaches courses in American culture and literature at 9 Eylül University. His poems appear in dozens of magazines, most recently Burnt Pine, Two Peach, Ink In Thirds, and Poetry Quarterly. He is also a 2016 Pushcart Prize nominee.