Poetry by Sara Lupita Olivares

  OPENINGS a small animal in your hands gives one expression the way trauma deepens in its ephemera a type of awe you can sometimes peel back to see yourself renegotiated & watching again        Sara Lupita Olivares is the author of the chapbook Field Things (dancing girl press). Her poems have appeared in Fourteen Hills, Horse Less Review, Columbia Poetry Review, and elsewhere. She currently teaches in Harlem and lives in Brooklyn, NY with her family.

TO BECOME LOUDER, EVEN STILL: Responses to Sexual Violence in Literary Spaces

INTRODUCTION From my time as a crisis counselor, I learned that the term “crisis” refers to a moment when the body identifies intense danger, either in response to a new trauma or triggered by a former one, compelling it to make the most immediate choices for survival. In curating the following responses to the topic of sexual violence in literary spaces, I cannot help but return to this definition of crisis. On March 6, 2016, VIDA: Women in the Literary Arts published “Reports from the Field: Statements Against Silence,” a collection of anonymous testimonials from women naming a well-known poet as a perpetrator of sexual violence; someone who has leveraged the power and prestige of his reputation to ensure their silence. What does it mean that the responses that have followed are not one of shock and dismay but of the acknowledgment that sexual violence has historically pervaded the spaces in which we write and build community? That other writers have spoken up and forged connections between this incident and sexual transgressions of myriad other forms perpetrated by mentors, teachers, and others who wield certain power across literary spaces? I think of crisis now because these moments force us to...
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Two Poems by Shonté Daniels

  Even the Moon   Coyolxauhqui’s body was found, like Sandra Bland, like Rekia Boyd, like Jessica Hernandez, guiding the sea of stars, leading the ocean back and forth, endlessly. Coyolxauhqui knew the dangers of violence and man, begged her mother to not give light to those who tug at our elbows like loose seams of string they can unravel. Women dying by the hands of men who envy a woman’s power, that is history, a long Tuesday night, the tide rising. Even the moon was born from a woman’s severed head, her angry heart still rolling.     La Malinche Goes to My High School   La Malinche transferred to my high school, and already the white kids mock her when her tongue stumbles on English words. They tell her to say teacher, say homework, say fuck. Say it all again in Nahuatl. I warn her about the boy who calls my hair straw because it won’t bend and flow like water. La Malinche counters with the kid who calls her Indian, calls her nuts and berries. Keep your dark skin to yourself, I tell her, so she squeezes herself into whiteness. She hikes her hair up into a high bun,...
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