One of the most enriching, forward-thinking, fastest-growing online creative communities flourishing right now is the Poetry community, especially in those scenes that center on marginalized voices — Women, POC, Neurodivergent, and LGBTQ. Poetry Spotlight is a feature aiming to showcase the work of some of the most talented creators we’ve discovered making waves on the Internet literary circles, inside or outside the mainstream. This installment is dedicated to the poetry of Liv Frances.
Liv is a mixed-race poet from the UK. She writes about a broad range of topics including her experiences growing up in both an Afro-Caribbean family, and in a white, working class family in rural Britain; through her poetry, she tackles everyday racism, mental health issues, death, and loss.
Strength and Hair Grease
Cross legged on the living room floor
you run a wire brush through my hair
(and my scalp and my skin)
Using a wide toothed comb like a machete to navigate your way through the jungle that is my hair
Thick blue grease all over so it didn’t dry out
I cried when it tangled
You told me to stop being silly
When I wanted to look like the others you got out the hot comb
Let it heat up on the stove and combed my hair till the kinks were no longer and I had long, soft flowing hair like the girls in my class
You burned your arm twice on the piping hot metal
You didn’t cry at all
riding bikes through my subconscious
a fleeting encounter
your eyes flicker back into existence a post-mortem magic trick
the birds above seem as real as you do and I focus every breath in my body on staying in this reality
I follow your tracks with the leaves crunching under my feet and I notice every detail I don’t want to think that this cannot be real
we are riding our bikes through corn fields and everything is right again.
I wake up in my bed, I cannot ride a bike, I wish I’d let you teach me.
Ars Moriendi
providential inmate
there is no doubt
praying in your cell
a good death
we die well
receive my naked newborn soul
below they shake their fists and howl
bitter in your hell
a good death
we die well
take off your frock
I’ll speak to God myself
ring the mourning bell
a good death
we die well
Unacceptable
I don’t quite fear for my life
I know I won’t be shot dead
The British are less direct
With snarky looks and judgement
The occasional tut
Unnecessary shock when you tell someone you got good grades
Shock that our black minds are capable of achieving anything
“Equal opportunities” means we won’t even give you a chance if you’re black or mixed but if you just put British then you’ll at least get at interview
Diminishing your blackness to fit in a sea of white faces
Being told your hair is too extreme when it’s the hair you were born with
Your hair is weird
Your hair feels like sheeps’ wool
So you damage it beyond repair to look like everyone else but you still don’t look right
Ive stopped stop trying to be “acceptable”
It could be worse
I don’t quite fear for my life
But acceptance would be nice.
