Matthew E. Henry (MEH)
there goes the neighborhood
a midrash qatan on Jonah 4:11
his new neighbors didn’t mind the U-Haul
partially blocking their driveway.
it’s a close-knit community. no good fences in evidence.
the trouble started when it got dark
and they realized one of the brown bucks—
t-shirt sodden from lugging boxes—
wasn’t hired help, but the new owner.
the coal black lawn jockey went up the next day,
its exaggerated lips and broad nose screaming
yessum massa above a white lantern.
a week later, three watermelon-eating monkeys
appeared in their bay window.
for months, he tolerated their Amazon deliveries,
custom orders. a family of golliwogs. a life-sized,
checker-headed Mammy. caricature prints of Jezebel,
Sambo, Uncle Tom, and even a tragic mulatto
were screwed into the siding facing his house.
where they found the vintage Coon Chicken road sign
is anyone’s guess. he was surprised more by how long
it took for the confederate flags to appear than how blind
his HOA became to the code violations. the morning he woke
to the pair of nooses hanging in an aging elm
and the infant-sized shackles at its base—presumably for him,
his wife, his baby girl—he made the decision
to burn their fucking house down.
a friend cautioned him against murder and was assured
molotov cocktails would only be served during work and school hours.
the friend posited a hypothetical elder—infirm and unknown
to our hero, unable to exit the house. he said fuck em—his axe
was whet to raze the tree from whence the rotten apple had fallen.
he’d harrow the poisoned soil to the root. watching the brown bottles
fill with kerosene, stuffed with shredded cloth, the friend asked,
what if they have pets? it gave him pause. in the silence, he considered
how God once questioned a prophet’s rage, perhaps willing to save
an entire civilization for the sake of the only ones who were truly innocent.
exposure therapy
when the police arrive they will ask me—probably
at gunpoint—why I broke that chair over your back.
I’m afraid of my most honest answer.
you were already doubled over from the kick to testicles
you proudly proclaimed you’ve had since birth.
an observation made while grabbing your crotch,
underscoring the stream of discourteous comments
flung at this fine gentleman—quips about rubber balls
and strap-ons, clearly knowing nothing of phalloplasty
and silicone implants—and your question of whether
his bulky sweater hid breasts that were bandaged
or surgically removed. both less painful than the bruised ribs
you’ll nurse for at least three months.
I have to ask: what first caught your now swollen eyes?
first put that smirk on your bloodied face? was his frame
too slight, his hair too perfectly coifed, his features
attractive enough to confuse you, make you question
yourself after a familiar pulsing, a flowing made
uncomfortable realizing your mistake? a feeling
other than the internal bleeding you should get checked
at the hospital? what was it about his way of quietly
drinking coffee, eating a scone, and minding the sports section
that offended your delicate sensibilities? he didn’t owe you
the definition of manhood, which ironically includes
far less sobbing than you’ve recently leaked. but now
I’m left in a quandary.
your bigotry has stumbled me into an existential crisis.
do my actions make me transphobic? did I see a damsel
in distress before I dislocated your jaw? a woman in need
of rescue as I vigorously applied my foot up your ass?
did you catch these hands because of patriarchal paradigms
I have not fully overcome? this will keep me up at night.
perhaps I should apologize to him—take him out to replace
the coffee I spilled and ask how I can be a better ally
*previously published in Volume Four, Issue 03 of Rigorous Magazine*
J.B. explains why he left the rally
...and then this motherfucker started talking about his ‘womb,’ and I was like oh shit. my bad miss. and he was like nah bro, I’m a dude. and I was like oh, well, you was just talking about your womb, so I thought I was misgendering you this whole conversation. he said I was taking about my wife. and I was like so you mean her womb. not a question. and he was like yeah, I mean, it’s ours, while giving me a “you know what I mean” type look. and I was like nah bro, and deaded the conversation and walked away. ‘cause that shit is crazy, right? I mean, it taught me that even progressives can be on some misogynistic bullshit, you know what I mean? what? nah. I never even said what color he was.
“If her father had but spit in her face…”
a midrash qatan on Numbers 12
R. Gregory asks:
what’s worse than being a nigger-
lover in the Bible?
R. Bar Kush replies:
being the nigger
whose rescue not even God secures.
the poetic justice of Miriam’s
leprous skin— stillborn-pallid
and wrinkled—notwithstanding,
her show was only put on hiatus,
not cancelled. a cop on paid leave
after mistaking Blackness for a gun.
imagine:
after your skin was weaponized
against your beloved—who also
never came to your defense—you spend
a lifetime hearing their whispers fall silent
around the well at your approach,
the hush descending at market stalls.
feeling eyes cut at your passing,
as if your existence is to blame for
your sister-in-law’s punishment.
you thought she liked you. shared roasted
lamb, received the wine and matzo
you made from the same dark hands
she brandished before her brother
and God. imagine being so loathed
and abandoned by the ones
you’ve chosen as your people.
myriad Sisters asks:
what is there to imagine?
when asked about white feminism
for Recy Taylor
if there was a white woman on the grand jury,
I wonder if the verdict would have been as
Alabama predictable. could she have seen
herself in the dock.
imagined she had donned
her Sunday best, slipped on patent leather shoes,
and walked her route home from worshiping
their shared savior, felt twelve white hands drag
her into the darkness of a green Chevrolet, then
a grove of pine trees, heard their orders leveled
like a shotgun at her head—
get them rags off or i’ll kill you and
leave you down here in the woods!—
been stripped
and held at knifepoint, told to
act like you do with your husband,
or i’ll cut your damn throat,
as each took
his slow turn, be blindfolded then thrown
to the roadside to limp her way home, found
half-naked at 3am by her worried daddy, heard
her husband questioned—
nigger, ain’t $600 enough
for raping your wife?
would that god-
fearing white woman do more than shed tears
for the brother, husband, son she can imagine
rightly accused?
Note: words in italics are the actual quotes attributed to Recy’s white attackers
Matthew E. Henry (MEH) is an educator, essayist, occasional fiction writer, and the author of seven poetry collections, most recently Promises to Keep (Wayfarer Books, 2026). He’s editor-in-chief of The Weight Journal, a poetry editor at American Poetry Journal, and nonfiction editor at Porcupine Literary. MEH’s publications include Barren Magazine, Had, Massachusetts Review, Mom Egg Review, Ploughshares, Stone Circle Review, Terrain, Whale Road Review, The Worcester Review, and Zone 3. MEH earned an MFA yet continued to spend money he didn’t have completing an MA in theology and a PhD in education. He writes about education, race, religion, and burning oppressive systems to the ground at www.MEHPoeting.com.
Banner Art:
Ming Smith, America Seen Through Stars and Stripes, New York City, New York Painted, 1976, WikiArt
