© 2018 by Djoré Nance The river that runs twixt Texas and Oklahoma Native blood the same as the native color The river that runs from the gulf to Canada Contains parts unknown in the negro panacea It’s an unrest that passes all confusion How do we awaken from this demonic illusion Hallucination of collusion with power that’s soft But it’s flacidity doesn’t merit a scoff Pay attention to the way they speak And the stupidity we seek will show a river of red A river bed that’s c

© 2018 by Nicki Pryor He had a Dream Yet it's still my Nightmare... The stares slicing The blank faces stabbing The uncomfortable glances He had a Dream Yet it's still my Nightmare... The oppression surviving The hurt unwavering The want of just mere chances He had a Dream Yet it's still my Nightmare... The bullets piercing The graves revealing The gone too soons He had a Dream Yet it's still my Nightmare... The divisive names The apoplectic diction The pseudo banters on the

© 2018 by Leila Martinez My name precedes me everywhere I go and I am assumed and categorized before I walk through the door. I am brown skin, blue black hair and dark brown eyes. I am suspicion. This is what it means to be brown in small-town America. I am spoken to slowly. I am a study of constructs. I am wide eyed, Slant eyes “Mexican-passing” in sea of yellows, whites and blacks. This is what it means to be brown in small-town America. I am background noise, my culture’s

© 2018 by Lisa Lloyd Forgive me. Forgive my arrogance. Forgive my statements of ignorance. Forgive my unspoken, but definitive thoughts of superiority. Since I, for so long, saw you as the minority. I grew up in a white-filled town, People of color were almost nowhere to be found. It was not segregated, no, not at all, But my eyes only saw “sameness” in my school halls. My textbooks were penned by mostly Caucasian writers, Who didn’t teach me African Americans were