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Julie Easley



the poet

Julie Easley (she/her) is a working-class poet, activist, intersectional feminist and trans ally widely published in anthologies online and in print. Her poems have featured as audio readings on the US New Generation Beat Poet Laureate Ron Whitehead’s album From the Ancestors (with music by Gabriel Walker), BBC Upload, Open Collab, and Butterfly Effect's MdZ Estate. Her film-poem skin was published by IceFloe Press. Julie's debut poetry chapbook, NOT MY KING, is forthcoming from The Black Light Engine Room Press in October 2023.

the poems

god in heels

'Anyone who does not know love

does not know God, because God is love'

1 John 4:8

00:00 / 00:48

                            if god appeared 

                            before you now, they would demand 

                            you look away 

                            if you had dared to steal their words 

                            and harm them

                            they would fix their hair, loosen 

                            a top button

                            or two then slip on heels 

                            to stomp on your placards 

                            that preach 

                            your commandments of hate

                            that god you howl is dead 


                            god is just a kid 

                            growing into themselves

                            sometimes they retreat

                            find their community online

                            sometimes god wears 

                            knee high boots and risks being killed

                            in a bathroom


Dedicated to MPs Priti Patel

and Suella Braverman

00:00 / 01:20

                         imagine you had just crossed the sea

                         crashed out of the waves

                         fell down onto your knees

                         imagine your kids strapped to your sides

                         their lives wrapped in plastic 

                         snapped and tagged for all the front pages

                         imagine that journey, the swell of fear 

                         in your mind, the relief of the sand

                         as your feet hit the ground 

                         imagine being met by military might

                         their strength and power transposed onto you

                         imagine being met by all that force

                         imagine the drowning of your spirit

                         no helping hands to keep you afloat

                         imagine that danger, your desperation

                         imagine the spectacle of media 

                         transmission is live on the 6 o’clock news

                         your trauma and torment in full public view

                         imagine if none of this were true

when I walked with
my First Nation friend
in Australia

00:00 / 02:35

our footprints were the same – marks in time and place, whispers

on the land. hers had longer toes, a lighter touch, her higher arch scarcely

skimming the surface of the red dust road. you could tell

I was following, hers paused occasionally, turning

and smudging the powdered earth between us, gathering up

the grains in pinched skin. her footsteps were rhythmic, heartbeat

paced, moments of movement that mourned the song

of the mother. she danced a little, displaced the land beneath belonging

feet, placed her land beneath her feet. our bodies became

the map, charting out the points where we lingered

longingly, where the dappled sunlight dripped on us like melting

butter, running down our bare flesh onto crusted

paths. we merged into one as we rounded the river, disappearing

into cooling waters quenching that part of us that thirsted

for more. we swam till fading light beckoned

us home, our impressions trailing behind tired

limbs, through bush-lined lanes into the mass of structures that bore

the town. we left our embrace in the earth, toes melting into toes obscuring

our separation, and as the sky dimmed into night we promenaded

the parade of hotels, where the tone of her feet was too dark to glide

through the guarded gates into the gilded paradise of cocktails and canned

laughter. in her country it was the pale stranger at her side who held

the keys. we retreated to the welcome noise of the downtown

bar that had no care of the colour of our soles and rested, pressing

our toes together as if in prayer. if by chance you were soaring

overhead and happened to glance upon us, you’d find two figures playing

footsie like childhood friends in the park.

Publishing credits

god in heels: written exclusively for iamb

imagine: Culture Matters

when I walked with my First Nation friend in Australia:

  StepAway Magazine (Issue 33)


S h a r e

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