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About this poet

Dominique Christina is the author of Anarcha Speaks: A History in Poems (Beacon Press, 2018), selected by Tyehimba Jess as a winner of the National Poetry Series. She is also the author of They Are All Me (Swimming with Elephants Publishing, 2015), This Is Woman’s Work (SoundsTrue Publishing, 2015), and The Bones, the Breaking, the Balm (Penmanship Books, 2014). Christina holds five national poetry slam titles, including a National Poetry Championship and two Women of the World Slam Championships.


Bibliography

Anarcha Speaks: A History in Poems (Beacon Press, 2018)
They Are All Me (Swimming with Elephants Publishing, 2015)
This Is Woman’s Work (SoundsTrue Publishing, 2015)
The Bones, the Breaking, the Balm (Penmanship Books, 2014)

Anarcha Will Speak and It Will Be So

massa come in like he know i caint cry
new tears

he take what he want
he keep a hot hand

every new hatred
cinch my throat closed.

he take me

give me a name made outta iron
he say it til i ain’t myself

i, sheet rock.
i, a salted wound.

i the upset of everything,
unholy,
                 this.

From Anarcha Speaks: A History in Poems. Copyright © 2018 by Dominique Christina. Reprinted with permission from Beacon Press, Boston, Massachusetts.

From Anarcha Speaks: A History in Poems. Copyright © 2018 by Dominique Christina. Reprinted with permission from Beacon Press, Boston, Massachusetts.

Dominique Christina

Dominique Christina is the author of Anarcha Speaks: A History in Poems (Beacon Press, 2018), winner of the 2017 National Poetry Series.

by this poet

poem

That morning he woke up and coupled
With his wife unceremoniously threw a leg
Over the bed after, sat up and told her
What they needed was more negroes
Like sayin you need to pick up milk from the store
Like sayin you outta eggs and corn meal
It was a simple thing you know…

The

poem

one night we slip out
slick as paste and quiet
nighttime stubborn
keep a heat anyhow
sky blurred wit fever
i sweat my kerchief loose

we layin out
we lookin up

we shook wit night wind
we knees up, drift wood.

i say:
what you make a dem stars?
he

poem

we once was warriors
bone sharp and tangling up
wit whatever wild was in the world
before some ships rolled in
wit folk we ain’t never seen
brandin iron and bullet men
claimin everythin
leavin misery

maybe
they know we ain’t always
been so lowly
so feverish