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Literature, PoetryDecember 3, 2014

Barrel

There is nothing abstract about my expressionism by Sausan Saulat. Courtesy: ArtChowk Gallery

There is nothing abstract about my expressionism by Sausan Saulat. Courtesy: ArtChowk Gallery

I knew I hated him. I knew they said
people where I’m from are like crabs in a barrel, constantly
pulling each other down. I know his name

isn’t important. I cared
about Shanna, how this girl I had a crush on
pronounced his name so right it could have been said

on the news. This is when I knew she was dating
him and that on top of how he jumped me in the gym
bathroom a month earlier was enough

for me. I knew envy, I knew wrath, how they often go
hand in hand like he and I on the same team
exchanging the relay baton. It didn’t matter when we came

back from our high school’s first regional track meet. These boys
from the neighborhood around the school came for blood. It didn’t matter
how lioness Coach Jordan was, guarding us

like cubs, her loud roar got silently caged
when the jackals aimed that tool
of trigger and lead at her. I couldn’t see it, my limbs

were busy becoming shields protecting the boy I wanted
dead a month before. A rumor I heard
said the limbs on the tree on the side of Timberland boots

used to be used for hangings and I don’t know
how true that is but I watched the tears sway from that boy’s eyes
as an overcast of stomps rained down on us both. I heard

someone say they turned the barrel towards us
but I didn’t see it, I was busy pulling that boy down, underneath
my guard. I lost track, confused

about which one of us
was supposed to be
the crab at this point.

~ Deonte Osayande

Deonte Osayande is writer from Detroit, Mi. His poems have been published in over a dozen literary journals. He is a two time member of the Detroit National Poetry Slam Team. When not traveling and performing he is a poetry reader for The Adroit Journal and Scissors and Spackle. He also teaches creative writing through Inside Out Detroit and is a Professor of English at Wayne County Community College.

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One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at maryamp@themissingslate.com.

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

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