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Passou de branco, preto é. Não existe este negócio de mulato.
Mulato pra mim é cor de mula.
—Tim Maia

They say I was born na cinza das horas
          of the time
when sun has slit its wrists
into the undarkened sky

and some have cried openly
at the newborn color. But is the spectrum
born? Or torn from stubbornly
disobedient scores of prisms

that refuse the stick instead for feast
of antropofagia.
 Eating all they can eat
or at least all of what string is

dangled in front of their nose. I know
this game well. I have since trod
many miles with a mão
          enorme solidly

promising the knowledge of steed
and strength of ass yet, sat backwards,
my rider not knowing the difference. Indeed, I wonder
at the validity of color, at the providence of a Black

Orpheus. What song is there to sing
me home? What map is made by O Cavalo Morto?
I look to the stars to bring
me answers, but all I see is the absence of color.



Woody Dismukes is a Brazilian-American poet and author living in Jackson Heights, Queens. He is a 2018 Clarion West graduate and has taught at University Settlement’s Creative Center. His work is featured in Huizache, Lightspeed, Apex, and elsewhere. You can find him on Twitter @WoodyDismukes or on his website woodydismukes.com.
Current Issue
18 Mar 2024

Strange Horizons
We are very happy to welcome Dante Luiz as a new fiction editor on the team! Dante is a Ignyte Award winning author, and has been with Strange Horizons working as an Art Director for the past several years. We’re stoked to bring him on to the fiction side and have him bring his wonderful insight and skill to the fiction team.
Day in and day out, the rough waters of the Pacific slam themselves against the protrusion of sandstone the locals refer to as Morro Rock. White streaks of bird shit bleed down the rock, a testament to the rare birds of prey that nest in its pocked face overlooking the bay.
in my defence, juggling biological and artificial, i tripped over my shoelace, and spilled my lungs empty of the innocence that was, before guilt.
the birds, / who carry with them / the many names of the dead
Wednesday: Overlap: The Lives of a Former Time Jumper by N. Joseph Glass 
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