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Overview
In Burning Sugar, verse and epistolary, racism and resilience, pain and precarity are flawlessly sewn together by the mighty hands of a Black, queer femme.
This book is the second title to be published under the VS. Books imprint, a series curated and edited by writer-musician Vivek Shraya, featuring work by new and emerging Indigenous or Black writers, or writers of color.
Product Details
ISBN-13: | 9781551528250 |
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Publisher: | Arsenal Pulp Press, Limited |
Publication date: | 09/29/2020 |
Pages: | 112 |
Sales rank: | 348,006 |
Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 8.00(h) x (d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Brandon, Manitoba
I found Black people between groves of wheat
drove hours along open road back to Winnipeg
heard whispers in the topography
Te-Nehisi said I could go anywhere
he told me in two hundred pages that Black folks could travel
said seeing the world is not a luxury
reserved for white men
we do travel though
some of us are still
on ships
Northern California
to be warm is to be held
soft hands touching under unblossomed orange trees in Northern California
sticky grass sweet air: tight and close but not choking
lurching on the precipice of discomfort
playing with fire
will we fall? will we burn?
will our hearts be ignited like kindling on winter evenings in childhoods far from here
we sing the diaspora song; an aching melody
on the white peaks of Atlantic waves
crashing crescendo
each note a drop of blood on the hands of white men
always washed away with the same salt that chokes us
grates away remnants of their crimes, so too does it erase us
black and brown and yellow and red
suddenly monochrome camouflage invisible
serpentine languages of our ancestors just daggers on our tongues
bullets in our souls
we are nothing more than shells trying to fill ourselves with meaning
tears, salty like the waters that brought us here
ships passing in the night we once were
now we are docked together, anchored to land that is not ours, nor theirs
wolves, bears, thunderbirds
stars are dying but we are reborn.
far from home, sticky grass, sweet air, tongues, tongues,
tongues of our ancestors reincarnated in us in ways we could never imagine, never deserve
but here we are, in Northern California blossoming like fruits
finding ourselves and loving and forging friendships and hurting together.
here we are
you may have broken us, severed us from old warmths
but here we rise eternally.
Dallas
I keep coming back to you
I just don’t know what to say
never felt so much burning grief radiating joy explode upwards from sidewalks
a sign read “Cop Appreciation Day”
I felt all of us become smaller
I felt hearts bleed songs of yearning
like I was being buried alive
there aren’t words for a feeling of insignificance
we don’t matter here.
I crashed a funeral
accidentally
I mourned a thousand deaths
I felt cotton beneath my bare toes
Homestead, Florida
Ⅰ
Back waters
swamp, stink, stuck.
heartache buried alive
snake pattern claw tooth jugular
she told me what happened here
I started putting sugar in my tea
it’s a triangle that tastes like sweat
ocean waves that taste like piss
a Great Dane put his paws on my shoulders
I saw underground railroads in his eyes
mosquitos, fireflies, zaps.
this state is full of swimming pools,
littered with white towels
and acid
breeze, tsunami.
worlds end and begin here,
moonlight pledges to water at night
You are full of unrequited endings.
Ⅱ
banana, mango, lychee
twelve years later.
Irma has been and gone
glorious groves lie broken in her wake
there’s tension between rednecks and Cubans
the air smells like gasoline and mangosteen
Hollywood, Florida
My grandmother tells stories of friendship;
1950s Spanish love affairs
red wine lips
calloused thumb hitchhiking
terracotta rooftops
books unfinished
post-war joy and heartache
African sunrise
freedom that tastes like lust
Jeopardy plays in front of TV dinners and whiskey on ice
aching limbs and tarpaulin skin
crook’d backs, rosacea, joints unhinged
Sixty years of chosen family rests between these aging bodies
the air is of salt and unending sunsets
I’m cross-legged on the couch
dreaming of gratitude and cross-Atlantic love
Northfield, Minnesota
Black bodies against snow
radiating
Kente cloth wears thin over broken bones
snow, sun, dancing
vibrant diaspora calls me home
Africa lives between the snowflakes
icicles drip in tongues
We took a shuttle to Target
I’d never been there before or since
it was red and phallic in the icy wilderness
I shouldn’t have followed him
but femmes are made to believe that men will keep us warm
St Paul, Minnesota
I drink coffee.
it tastes bitter like gasoline on the Hudson River
I walk on glass bridges
my shoes vibrating with angst
I plan vigils in my mind
three years later, Philando Castille will die here