I asked you not to hurt me
the way history did
Three Poems by Annie Woodford
Prisms spin in the hardwood floor.
My daughter glides and chops, skate-shod,
Her little girl legs a perfection of knees and narrow thighs.
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Three Poems by Dahlia Seroussi
Four Poems by Priscilla Wathington
”I was a ghost in a strawberry field for five years,” he says.
“The ghosts were plentiful, ‘la fruta
del diablo,’ as they called it, also--
faakiha ash-Shaytan.”
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Three Poems By Laura Wetherington
Soft solid visage, followed by reflection.
If only each cavity knew oblivion.
The eye, preceded mostly by footwork,
waves into pain. The right to feel the lights.
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Two Poems by by Melissa Stein
Everything served up / on a silver charger. / Even the air conditioning, / even the sink fixtures / hold the peculiar/ inevitability of flawless / design.
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Two Poems by D.M. Aderibigbe
Three Poems By Esther Lee
Give me back to my body—not the same
narratives you write everyday nor wheels on
ends of piano legs, but rather, a momentary
transcendence, or at least system overridden,
before you take a bullet in the back—
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Two Poems By Jennifer S. Cheng
If temperature were a way to know the world, then
waning heat, half-heat, these would be names for the body in progress
and not merely words for the time of day. If texture were our
primary experience, we might have ways of calling ourselves
to others.
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Four poems By Samiya Bashir
Avoid heavy cottons.
Embrace the blend into a moonless night.
Necessities only: medicine, make-up, moisturizer.
Leave lugging to the muscle.
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Two Poems By Lyn Coffin
Walking hard on a stone beach, both of us
(as we joked) literally around the bend,
we came to where once upon a time a cliff
collapsed-- the wreckage of what had been
a cottage with a view
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For Jermaine, Six, Dead in Boston By Patricia Smith
Spent bullets sparkle on streets grimy with the thud of winter.
Knives bulge odd angles in children’s pockets, and any one
of their upturned words could bring us another you.
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Symptoms of Homesickness by Gabriella R. Talmadge
Constant state of what. Word for word for what.
what wounded. Thirst of what, tending the fires of what.
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Two Poems By Grant Kitrell
Things are not always dead. Dad’s elbow, for instance, I thought I saw it folding in the shallows among the orange tree scraps. Mom dumps them off the end to float the creek.
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Three Poems By Ladan Osman
I can't tell why I think the dried corncobs
in the gravel and the mattress under the tree
were not put here by children who bite so fast
they leave rows of kernels.
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Two Poems by Cortney Lamar Charleston
And it darts across the street with the speed
of a rumor’s shadow – a dark and discreet beast
about his size, small configuration of bones
that he is.
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Three Poems by Wendy Chin-Tanner
Poetry and Art by Joshua Ware
In the avocado night, lit green by the avocado light, we wait, suddenly, for the sun to break bright, binding us together in the avocado dawn. In the repetition of our words, of our sounds, of our songs, of our thoughts made from music from our mouths, we love what binds us together.
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Three Poems by Jeff Alessandrelli
Using too many adjectives
is no different than leaving
the price tag
on
a designer sports jacket
you purchased second hand.
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Two Poems by Glenn Shaheen
Let’s party. Like, I want to be a believer in the power
of dance, the point of the party. There are individuals
in every corner, bellies filled with animal something.
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