Neema Avashia on being Indian, queer, and Appalachian

Jocelyn Nicole Johnson talks about 'My Monticello'
Far Post

Far Post

My lip is swollen like a bee sting. On the inside it keeps rubbing against my braces, sore. All I can think about is the salty flavor of the cut in my mouth, and I’ve been late to every class, my mind wandering down the hall, sucking on this sore.…
Scalpeen

Scalpeen

1 There is a racial memory by which the past is continually accumulated and preserved. —Henri Bergson, A New Philosophy Even before my father bought a remote parcel of brushy-up land in Appalachian Ohio’s Monroe County (which land and the people living around it has become a major source of…

At the Gate

Say you are not watching people take off their shoes, put their belongings on  a conveyer, empty their pockets of change. Say you are wearing  an extravagant silk scarf, oversized sunglasses, a brilliant smile. No searches stand between you and the silver jet warming its engines at the gate. But…

The Warp

Everything rusts, warps, settles off-center askew. I ask you, Is this what I meant to make of myself? Except what’s entered the cracks in the smooth façade of my intent is bright—unforeseen as moonlight’s body in the radiant dark. Rusted solid, I am stuck in spots I had set all…

Redemption

The minister says I’m alive Through grace says  They may never know What rendered me silent He tells them to pray The spirit gives several messages In other tongues         Praise the Lord         They shout         Praise the Lord The…
Testimony

Testimony

They told the judge I sat before an open fire Fell right into it But wasn’t a hair on my head singed. They recalled my vision A prophetess wearing clothes The color of rotten grasses Grounding sage to a fine powder They said I put it in their tea Told…