Honeyfish by Lauren K. Alleyne

Lauren Alleyne’s Honeyfish contains poems of family history (not always what you wish for), personal experience, and elegies for victims of racial violence. Lauren’s work doesn’t need to be timely to be enjoyed, but it is especially timely now. Pick up her book. Listen. You’ll enjoy it! Buy here.

From “Play,” an elegy for Tamir Rice

. . . I want to say wait / but in the distance / between the urge // and the utterance / between lung and lip / (one-a-thousand; two-a-thousand) // he is gone. I play / the video again and again / trying to hit stop // in time to keep him / alive. I make a black boy / Lazarus of him, minus // the miracle: the bullet, / faster than fingers of hope, / wins every time.

From “Self-Portrait with Burning Crosses”

. . . I’m a woman with skin / that summons crosses and flame. / Which is to say I am always burning. / Which is to say I do not have enough / tears to put myself out.

From “Honeyfish”

The catch is so fresh, each bite is blue— / the sea still in it, and settling on your tongue // like prayer. This is what it means to eat, / you think, to abandon utensils for the grace // of fingers, to hold flesh against flesh, . . .