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Robin Heald

“Isa, this package came for you.” Mamãe sets a box in front of my cereal bowl.

“It’s from Vó Ziza,” I say. My granny, Ziza, lives in Brazil, far away from our family in Miami.

Tara Bray

The warbler’s folded in my tongue
like a lemon drop. What joy
it is to trap a festival inside,

Chard deNiord

In steps at your command/down the plank of a tall
fast ship with the salt/of sex across its lips.

Kenneth Garcia

The ores of divine providence are everywhere infused, and everywhere to be found. St. Augustine, De Doctrina Cristiana The margins of the world surrounded me—at least in the physical sense—for hundreds of miles in every direction: a no-man’s land of semi-arid deserts; middles of nowhere; and solitary mountain ranges. I lived in this no-man’s land, […]

Katherine Hollander

These creatures with breathing blue
necks. Arch and bristle. Forelock and star.

Katherine Hollander

Round-headed, round-eyed, curious, astonished, like an owl or a sea lion, but white as moonlight: a lynx with feathered feet, a little snow-colored kit, bounding. Hullo, you silence. Hullo you secret joy. Take flight into the blackest forest, where the wild boar still roots with a coral-pink snout. Let him find you his one prize, […]

Jessica Goodfellow

In origami the mountain fold
folds down—constructing
an obstacle. The valley fold
folds up: receptacle.
The difference between
structure and stricture,
between paperweight
and wastepaper basket.

Nancy Eimers

Frog eyes glimmer in water then douse themselves and shiny turtles topple off a log down to the water’s under-black when I step out skin    form    and sun hauled out of layers of trees spring wood      summer wood the bark and pith to walk and stand at shore and trying not to move […]

WAITING Monday April 16th At the barre at Miss Allie’s I lean and dream: onstage alone where the spotlight glows, fears of an audience scatter like stage dust. Music flows through me – it always does like air and blood moving my limbs to dance in ways that push me out so close to the […]

Goldie Goldbloom

When my mother died, I stopped calling her mum and began to call her mama.

Carol Tyx

The teacher did not like the poem,

but seemed unable to say why, his face

seeping dismay or disgust.

Noelle Catharine Allen

I had killed the engine, filed my nails, organized my wallet, and done a sketch of my left hand.

William Olsen

Wherefore the marram grass settled the land there also sprang the children who are as the sand in the sea, and houses on stilts as good as gone.

David Moolten

For they everted the irreversible,
Proved all that time my life went door slam
Door slam done an epic waste for the sake
Of argument.

River Holmes-Miller

I am The Weird Girl. The Freak. The Barfy Little Feeb.

Majda Talal Gama

I’ve seen you in souks that spill with people,

On streets that reek of three continents,

Found you filling cut-glass crystal with the scent

Of nine woods and the rose petals of three cities.

Jessica Goodfellow

The brain, Aristotle ruled,

was a system meant to cool

the heart. Hot heart.

William Olsen

Gust smattered gobs of snow glommed to spruce
limbs
shingled white, then, through snow fume, a hint
of living green

Michael J Pagán

Unghost, the leftover residue across the surfaces of the sea, after a receding

wave or a skimming of the hands.

Sara Schaff

Our house was too big. It dwarfed me and my mother, who cried every year when we received the first winter heating bill.

Majda Talal Gama

No sweeter air than the breeze that brushes the ankles
of the Lebanese women in their shift dresses

Dionisia Morales

I found out I was pregnant during rock-climbing season. The weekend before the test showed positive, I was clinging to the stone faces that flank central Oregon’s Crooked River.

Frannie Lindsay

What else is she ever going to be
but one of the wind’s outgrown costumes
stuck in the swingset’s tangled chains

Beth Miles

We wait at the end of the driveway for the school bus. The hot, bright day I’d imagined as my first day of school looks more like a swamp at dawn.

D A Thompson

The memory hits me like hunger: sudden pangs, gnawing edgewise. First it’s just a headline and the torn edge of a story.

Dante Di Stefano

The dead don’t bivouac by the riverside.
I reckon love ain’t two fifths consolation,
but a pint of bastard light through the gut.

Matt Yurdana

Some admire the old bull’s cracked horns and peeling hooves, the second skin of ancient

mud as wrecked and crumbling as this narrow road

Laura S Distelheim

Five o’clock a.m. on a morning last fall, in the Walgreens of an affluent suburb on Chicago’s North Shore, where I have gone to buy batteries for my flashlight…

Michelle Webster-Hein

We took a walk this evening as we often do. My husband pushed my daughter in her stroller as I walked alongside.

Gary Moore

I wanted the prize but the prize looked the other way
It was the other prize…

Laura Budofsky Wisniewski

You can dress my naked genome up.
You can teach it art and poetry,
but it will pace the corners of the night
grunting, ‘Something else. There’s something else.’

Frannie Lindsey

Sometimes you visit bringing the lilacs’ stifle and chill
sometimes the earthworms’ benevolent gleam

Nancy Eimers

Under the skin, that’s where I am afraid—
I found it in the mirror tonight
between my breasts and just below
where halves of the ribcage meet…

Joel Brouwer

We should be glad our safety and security
are someone’s top priority, yet we
can’t help but hope for fresh announcements

Chard deNiord

In a sea beneath a sea without a name
where waters gathered to a clarity

Annie Lighthart

The body keeps us ordinary. It says Sleep, and we must,
it says Eat, and we do.

Mike Wright

The office tower is glass,
so cars float on its wall as ghosts,
and I’m a phantom too, my shadow split
as three figments onto the marble floor.

francine j harris

i have walked with half a skull and i have walked
with a blanch shell. i have walked, legs
split hungry, and i have walked too old.

Laura Budofsky Wisniewski

Only half the deadwood’s down.
A man’s maul releases
the sour smell of poplar,
severs the gnarled scars of oak,
bites through yellow beech.

Gary Moore

I wanted the prize but the prize looked the other way
It was the other prize
I wanted the beach but I got the mountains

Chard deNiord

In a sea beneath a sea without a name
where waters gathered to a clarity
that was also sorrow. There, in the darkness