The portal appears

it is an honor and a pleasure to be welcoming remarkable poet and visionary Destiny Hemphill as Poetry Editor alongside me here at Southern Cultures. Too often poetry journals, or even the small space poetry takes up in larger magazines, become vacuums that amplify the taste of one person. We've worked hard to make sure our poetry celebrates the widest possible range of voices in a constantly evolving South. We can always do better, but collaboration is always more fruitful than isolation—in poetry and in every aspect of life in this world.

Destiny Hemphill has long been one of my favorite poets writing today. She is what one might call an "emerging poet" since her highly anticipated first book is not yet out in the world. What I've always loved about Destiny is that her poems feel entirely her own and entirely timeless. They make community happen, building in their rigorous syntax and innovative formal vessel, and through the process of writing and making the gateway for the reader to move through, they create ritual space. I'm not sure I know of another poet writing today whose poems feel as alive as Destiny's feel to me. These poems challenge me on every level. They are a pleasure and also a deep teaching. This act of community-making and ritual space is something Destiny enacts in her daily life as a teacher, healer, organizer, and editor. I know our poetry section has already been deepened and made fuller by her presence. It is a pleasure and an honor to be in collaboration and community with her.

scarlet sky/ fissured earth/ cotton-mouthed/ your hands clasped/ across your splitting belly/ in your craw/ is the historical entanglement/ the halfmillennium long/ planetary ecocide-genocide knot/ known as "since 1492"/ you were born into it/ & it into you/ churning, burning, bulging/ within you/ your ears ring/ soften your craggy breath/ now a hum/ soften your craggy breath/ now a song/ now a song?/ yes, a cicada song/ burrowing into your skull/ go to the edge/ not the bleached pit of the center/ but the edge/ the song says/ go to the edge/ no, not the hemorrhaged/ mottling borders of empire. but beyond/ elsewhere/ go to the edge/ look down/ slivers of moonrind so thin/ they look like/ they could slice/ the souls of your feet/ illumine your path/ you follow them/ sometimes you walk, slither, hop/ along the slivers of moonrind/ to the edge/ sometimes the knot makes it that you are writhing/ convulsing/ revolting/ to the edge/ to the edge, nonetheless/ the edge be a liminal space/ & you know liminal ≠ marginal/ (&if you don't know, now you know)/ but rather, liminal be a ritual/ space/ & a ritual space be for summoning/ & transformation/ when you arrive/ the fragrance/ of mulberry trees/ washes over you/ it is dusk/ you are not alone here/ others surround you with red threads/ hanging from their mouths/ you feel the knot/ entangled within you/ unravel/ you all kneel/ sink into the edge/ pull the threads/ from each of your own mouths/ not always gently/ not always gingerly/ as you pull, unravel, disentangle/ you swoon & sway in somnolence/ a summoning hum then howl/ comes from your throats/ & as you summon other worlds, may other worlds summon you & as you summon another world, may another world summon you & as you summon motherworld, may motherworld summon summon summon