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riel fuqua

Contact information, map and directions, contact form, opening hours, services, ratings, photos, videos and announcements from riel fuqua, Poet, Florence, AL.

03/25/2026

‘at the thrift store in tears because i miss my grandmother who is fifteen years dead’ (2026)

i am reminded of you here, in between the antique pyrex mixing bowls i can’t afford right now, the old salt & pepper shakers, burnt orange & neon yellow crocheted trivets, the find-me-not tchotchkes painted by hand, the $1.00 green barb section, the $.50 cent rack, & the old ritz cracker canister just like the one in your kitchen on randolph —
i think momma has it now, & she should have it if she doesn’t. if i breathe in deeply enough, i can smell your signature scent in the air; powdery & brave. i can see the velvety texture of your skin. (what would you say about my nose piercings? something like: “child, why you got all them damn holes
in yo nose?” & we would laugh.

& you would laugh with your shoulders.

02/14/2026

wishing you & the ones you love a very happy valentine’s day ♥️

‘you are held here’ (2026)

love
a meat within the rind ripened decadent
certain
no begging on hands & knees for it nor a question asked over the tongue
love
unannounced but steadfast the most beautiful knowing that you are held here

01/16/2026

‘you are held here’ (2026)

06/22/2025

‘how’s your heart feeling’ (2025)

05/24/2025

‘not right now, i’m thinking’ (2025)

what of the weather,
the seasons melting into each other like a kiss to the temple? what of the crackle of candles impulsively bought, burning, brandishing the nose with a curled hand — the smell that reminds me of one thing, grief.
what of the joy of children of the world is burned by that same fire,
plenty a myth & enough a lie?
what of their laughter?
their hunger? their dying? (nobody cares closely enough.)
what of breathing the air we don’t pay for,
supping the earth of her milk like piglets to a teat —
what of whistlers on the street. what of manic episodes
& believing that any wisp of faith would lead me to
something called
a Father? what of oil changes,
stale cereal,
molded bread on the kitchen counter—
greenish & whitish?
what of your crescent of a smile,
the beautiful stained glass glint in my periphery,
if i cannot will myself to get out of bed in the morning?
what of my treading water
& my breath going stale,
all because i was just too goddamned scared
to go ahead
& learn
to swim?

02/06/2025

thrilled to be joining Florence Arts and Museums for open mic night later this month! ✨

01/29/2025

not a poem, but a prayer. everything is heavy & terrible & i don’t know what else to say except you have my love.

01/22/2025

looking for a sweet gift for your sweetie before feb. 14th? want to spread some self love to yourself? commissions are now open for valentine’s day poems, written by yours truly! i’d love to help you express your love this valentine’s day. 💕💓💕💓💕💓 dm me for prices & details!

01/15/2025

so happy to announce that my poem “with a heart forward facing” has been featured in Mind Matters Magazine! ✨

11/04/2024

i watch the family of deer cross the street

with a breath inside, holden and hollow. i never know what to do with beautiful things. i can’t breathe when something is so unusually beautiful that it does something to me. makes me wonder why it is there for me to see. makes me want to see. makes me wonder what it takes to be Seen.

i do not breathe and the mother is taking long strides across the asphalt, halting only to ensure the other does and babies are behind her. i think to myself that dad must be around, a flash of Bambi’s dad flickering behind my eyes. there are not enough serene moments. i want to be bathed in serenity. there’s
something about the pause of stopping that i relate to, that bleeds in my bones. i am not an old person now — skin is thick as ever and i keep a good head most days. nights feel different, though.

isn’t it something here? to numb all movement just to watch a family of deer crossing the street. i am not behind a steering wheel. i am not inserted into or demanded to be things and people here. i do not register that i need to breathe in this moment of serendipity. it dawns on me that the next time i will see a family of deer, one of them will be smithereens and innards splattered on veterans drive. sometimes people are good and pick the deer up, if they haven’t been crushed to death, and spread the carcasses on the shoulder, amid political signage and construction crews.

i do not envy the dying things for i am one. the final deer crosses and i press forward. on to something that will make my blood a little less hollow. on to the next moment that reminds me of my own humanity.

11/02/2024

i do not survive america

one day i will open my mouth wide enough to tell my stories. one day i will talk about darknesses and how the smell of burnt popcorn has been in my hair since the second grade. one day i will oh say can you see by some dawn, some early light. one day i will talk about drunken hugs, unwanted advances, and touch all of the places my assailants broke me. one day i will talk about being black enough to be seen and black enough to not be heard. one day i will talk about the lump in my throat that never leaves, the saga of being in this body, and grandma’s perfume, and how anything that has ever died in my life never really died. one day i will talk about the binge eating and the wellbutrin. one day i will talk about bomb threats and being scared to open my email for a year and a half. one day i will pour myself into your eyes, a mirror for you, a blister for me. one day i will tell someone that they hurt my feelings as i am hurting. one day i will be good and process my pain when i am in it instead of creating a drama of it, wading in the waters of it, begging for baptism and crying for cleansing. one day i will open my mouth and sing and no one will find that particularly remarkable because they will be too busy grieving with me.
one day i will open my mouth wide enough to tel my stories, and on that day, you will still not be listening. i am asking you to hear me.

you do not hear me.

10/22/2024

(a little bit of life) ::

fruit fly traps and summertime. piles of laundry that tell the stories of where they’ve been worn. stepping out fresh from sleep to a dewy, sunrise laden morning. the whistling of the kettle that says, “i’m here, too, and if you’ll wait for me, i’ll be ready.” letters whimsically forgotten in the mailbox. self hugs, fits of crying, self regulation. pots of chili simmering on the stove on sunday. the roar of the vacuum. the song of the washing machine. dirty dishes in the sink that only mean someone ate a proper meal here. lukewarm cups of tea and bathwater yearning to be remembered. the taking in of solitary breath. laughter bouncing off of the walls. medication and meditation. a little bit of life.

Address

Florence, AL

Website

facebook.com

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