Durell Carter

Winner – Editor’s Spotlight Award in Poetry

I am not America’s favorite son.


              If you are experiencing these words,
neither are you.
              You are milliseconds,
dollar signs,
              a centipede leg,
to every Glass Ceiling
              Hellhound
born to eat
              you.


If you are experiencing these words,
             does your Jesus wear
Louis Vuitton?

If you are experiencing these words,
          do you want to steal my slice
of the Holy Ghost?


If you are experiencing these words,
             do you glaze your amens
with righteous fellowship?


My phone keeps showing me
          sons and daughters
who are deemed worthy
              of being Aligatored
and being permanently
              lost forever
by born shitty
              sons and daughters.


If you are experiencing these words,
             do you know what your tears taste like
after being dropped to your knees
              by a classist fisted tragedy?


If you are experiencing these words,
              I hope you are watching
the world
              And still finding
seeds
              of hope
in the cracks
            of your concrete.
I’m Stuck at a Computer Wondering If I Am a Good American While a Commercial Is Trying to Convince Me to Take Ozempic So I Can Look like Someone That Is More Digestible

Does a Good American
wonder how their words
are going to scratch
their neighbors back?

Or how their Good American words
can gnaw off the tongue
of a stranger
that was taught
not to trust
you?

Does a Good American
admit that their optimism
for the future
of their country
smells like it were given to them
when they were too young
to hold it properly?

Does a Good American
pray for innocent people
that are being stripped away
from their
here
and now
because they were born
behind an artificial line?

Does a Good American
sing the National Anthem
right before they find a reason
to isolate you?

Does a Good American
say “fuck yeah,
give me some more”
when America
Americas them.

Does a Good American
dress like your father
but never
like your mother?

Does a Good American
dream about a decade
that has never existed
and wonder
if things will get
better?

Does a Good American
drink Blue Ribbon
and grin
right before they find time
to shake the hourglass
in reverse?

Does a Good American
avoid conversations
with people who empathize
with the mothers
of dead rappers?

Does a Good American
empathize?

Does a Good American
lick their lips
when it sees a
lamb-eyed, warm-
blooded straggler
not obey the rules
of the wild?
Views From the Red-Light Aquarium


The sun falls out of the sky
but the glowing cherry remains—
The world is still bleeding,
still clamping gauze to wounds
that don’t know the meaning
of time. The world is still
clamping today, tomorrow,
and dreams of heaven-painted
humanity to its lungs,
hoping that it’s good enough
to stop the air we breathe
from becoming touched with
Dragon Chest Syndrome—
an airborne disease
that causes travelers
to want to burn everything
beautiful
that’s not theirs.

The red light we swim in
quickdraws the chlorophyll
to the surface
of our purpose
dystopia-ing
our buildings,
our future heroes
inspired by spray canned
murals of the heroes
who lost everything,
and everyone labeled “apex”
that believe themselves
conqueror and forever.

Everyone’s a red robin.
Everyone is worthy of having a snapshot of them
taken while standing next to a tree,
singing a song for their god, for their mother,
for the hatchling
they never got to be.

The Igneous
& The Magmafied—
those exposed to actual volcanoes,
know it’s not as hot as it looks
outside.

They know:

it’s cool enough for memories to dance
on the driveway that leads strangers to you.

It’s cool enough to make love
to the person who chooses to save you
from you.

It’s cool enough to thank God
for the echoes that hum purple
and mothers forehead kiss.

Red floats and glides on the aquarium walls,
and I know I should be seeing anything related to rage,
anything related to an image of a red hourglass on a Black Widow.
And yet, the stained-glass windows that pours
Church-With-My-Grandma Strawberry
Candy Red
are what I choose to photosynthesize my faith into—
a world I have yet to breathe on.

Durell Carter is a writer and teacher based in Oklahoma, where he shares his passion for literature with his students. He holds a graduate degree in English from the University of Central Oklahoma and recently released his poetry collection, Mr. Monday Morning’s Broken Songs and Testimonies. Carter’s work has been published in numerous literary outlets, including Rising Phoenix Review, Wild Roof Journal, Posit, Midway Journal, and others.

Banner Art:
from Stag Fighting a Wolf, after Antoine Louis Barye, Charles Jacque, 1846

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