Akoloute (Sequi Me)

By ELIZABETH L. HODGES

Tracing dusty footprints, you can be led
to fornix, to tombs, the circus and bars,
to my lupan, my cell, my earthen bed;
what waits is not secret—see what I are?
I’m not a barmaid, an actor or slave;
I’m not being cursed because I had sinned—
I’m earning my keep in this grisly trade.
For that I am traif, but come along in.
I’ll lead you to places you’ve never had;
to hell in a basket: one bloody as.

Elizabeth L. Hodges was legal counsel for the New Hampshire Judiciary for fourteen years. She founded St. Petersburg Review, an independent international review of contemporary literature, in 2007. Blood Sonnets will be published in November. She lives in New Hampshire.

[Purchase Issue 28 here.] 

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Akoloute (Sequi Me)

Related Posts

Close-up of a field of rye

April 2026 Poetry Feature #1: Carson Wolfe, Benjamin Paloff, and Jehanne Dubrow

JEHANNE DUBROW
For years, I’ve been drafting a book / about trauma, how words may form / a likeness of the mind that’s torn— / the past tears easily as paper, I write. / And don’t the leaves on the ground / resemble ripped poems, as if the weather / keeps trying to find the right phrase, / all those crumpled revisions of the seasons.

Black and white portrait of a man wearing spectacles.

They Could Have

CONSTANTINE CONTOGENIS
Near destitute, I’m this close to homeless. / This killer of a city, Antioch, / it’s eaten all the money I have, / this killer and its cost of living. // But I’m young, in the best health. / I speak a marvelous Greek / (and I know, I mean “know,” my Aristotle, Plato, / the orators, poets, the—well, you name them).

March 2026 Poetry Feature: Welcome Back Peter Filkins

PETER FILKINS
pissarro is dead cézanne too / swept away like willowed flotsam / that brute degas gone as well / chafing tides the sea of years // long ago battles fought discarded / ballast tossed from fame’s balloon / rising like heat and the unheard prices / feeding straw to the fires of need // for more garden cuttings variants