Saleem Abdal-Khaaliq
Saleem Abdal-Khaaliq is the author of Mind Sand-Selected Poems. Originally from Massachusetts, he now lives in New York City, a longtime educator. His work has appeared in Obsidian Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora–Illinois State University and other online literary publications. Visit him on the web here.
The following work is Copyright © 2025, and owned by Saleem Abdal-Khaaliq and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
still / life
she wears no bra into this
night, bright red tomatoes
undoing themselves from
their vines
lust leaves strange fruit
to wither and fall
her body ripened
bruised – crisp
golden brown in a dress
of sassafras neither
linen nor cotton can hide
her intentions
she wears no bra into this
night, because still/
life does not … see her
what to wear to a suicide
reveal retribution brutally
re-read rules – really?
legislation always comes
after-the-fact, incidentally
climatic wardrobe a shawl
a cape perhaps
no note no call no one
needs to know
someone will have
to clean-up the mess
i’ll leave money for them
no, why should i?
they didn’t value or help
me when I was here
they just stood there like
pale mannequins
they are not invited
to this dress rehearsal
they can clean up …
what if i wore nothing at all
like i came into this world
a rope with a noose kind
of looks like an umbilical cord
doesn’t it?
Anne Marie Wells
Anne Marie Wells is the author of Survived By (Curious Corvid Publishing, 2023), Mother, (v) (Cinnamon Press, 2024), and the book of writing prompts Write Some Cool Sh!t (forthcoming Star Belt Press, 2025). She is a freelance copy and content editor, writing coach, and creative writing instructor. Visit Anne Marie on the web here.
The following work is Copyright © 2025, and owned by Anne Marie Wells and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
I Pretend to Eat
Why is it always just the babies starving?
Can’t you see you’re falling for the propaganda?
my no-longer-my-friend says back.
I scream,
Babies can’t eat solid food, you stupid fuck!
and kiss the table
with my teeth, heave
in the helplessness of it all.
I donate my money,
write my stupid poems.
Nothing
is enough when children scoop sand
into their desperate mouths, when garbage
bags act as diapers atop naked vertebrae.
YOU ARE A MOTHER!
The words fly out of my mouth like a screeching bat
before I gavel the phone with my fist.
The world knows no order, no court.
When the truth burns like a hot coal in my mouth
how dare anyone say that hot coal doesn’t exist, how dare anyone
say that hot coal voted democratically
for their leaders that don’t give a shit about them,
as if that is a justification to also not give a shit about them.
My toddler puts his magnets down
to stand next to me, to ask with his eyes
if he’s unsafe, if he needs to be scared.
My smile must have seemed so hollow
painted atop my wet face, red and swollen
like a writhing stomach.
He walks away, comes back
with a piece of pizza made of cotton and felt.
Mushroom, I say, putting it to my lips.
My favorite.
I Pretend to Eat.
