The first time I saw the words “ms. chintha is a bitch” inked on to walls, I was 29 years old. I had been teaching for a mere four years, but felt so veteran already because I had stopped crying when fights happened in or near my classroom among students. Up until my fourth year, I blamed myself for not creating a safe enough space for my students and that’s why they began fighting.

at 3am,
I fantasize about letting the air out of my neighbor’s tires
deflating his entitlement, for parking in my spot
karma just needed a little encouragement

As a child, I rejoiced in making French braids and high buns out of its thick curls. I wrote my own stories within the impenetrable knots of marriage and motherhood, weaving through her silky strands that seemed to extend for miles. The comb that would agitate my own coiled hair would billow through hers, without the slightest effort.

Furious Femme by Katryna Carter

Little white stick,
I didn’t plan to be back
here again,
removing the blue cap to hold you
in a wash of hot urine,
then watch the clock—
breath held,
heart thrumming,
telling no one—

female: forgotten forsaken forbidden fenced
follicular fallopian fundal fetus
fastidious fanatical fascinating fickle
foolish feisty fortunate freak

Fists clench, and voice cracks,
Hope’s dear flame in shadowed eyes,
Fear rages constant.

To Those Who Stole My Autonomy:

I stand a sturdy sixty inches; mostly fat,
a rumbling glacier
threatening civilization’s end.
a grown-ass brown woman
standing outside your pretty bougie house
of perfectly manicured lawns, stainless white fences.

I made of us boulders
forged in relentless gusts
that threatened silence,
destruction.