I took so long to learn / the black in pockets is you
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Two Poems by Victoria Chang
Somewhere, in the morning, my mother / had become the sketch.
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Three Poems by Sandra Beasley
You are the sunburn / where there is no sun, a canary nested / in the ribcage of a miner.
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Boys Least Likely To by Colin Rafferty
Out of the three of us, I am the only one who wasn't wrapped in cardboard. The only one who didn't join the books in the furnace. The only one forgotten, except by the few who take solace in my unknowableness.
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A 360° Photograph of San Francisco’s Ocean Beach by Dimiter Kenarov
Giddy, I spin the landscape around myself until I feel again like a child.
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Southside Buddhist by Ira Sukrungruang
The Southside me is like the Southside neighborhoods with the cracked and weedy sidewalks, the eroding brown-brick buildings, the abandoned factories. The Southside resists any type of change, unless it’s for the worse.
Fireflies by Aimee Nezhukumatathil
I know I will search for fireflies all the rest of my days, even though they dwindle a little more each year. I can’t help it. They blink on and off, a lime glow to the summer night air, as if to say: I am still here, you are still here…
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There is Always More by Ahsan Butt
As the credits rolled, Dad was leaned forward on his crossed leg, rubbing where his forehead touches the mat in prayer—that’s what it is: man becomes animal when death comes.
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Mr. Plimpton's Revenge by Dinty W. Moore
So I imagine my rickety-clickety little car didn’t frighten him much. I remember that he was thoroughly gracious. And tall. Very tall.
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Something of Home by Brian Simoneau
When you’re young, cities seem magnificent no matter what. Wide-eyed/ you look up to all the buildings crowned with wreaths of ice, speak fondly/ all the streets, mouth full with knowing This is home.
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Answer Woman by Michael Chin
The extent of what she knew for sure about her past was trapped inside the glass dome of a snow globe, the weight at the bottom of her rucksack for every move she had made.
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Two Poems by Chris Haven
They are relic and untouchable. They move older than direction, under timelapse skies.
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Two Poems by Chloe Martinez
You were looking for water, as you // (or some other five hundred ants) / always do in the heat, in September.
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It's A Long Story by Chelsey Clammer
I needed guidance in accepting and claiming my new identity. I needed some education. I needed empowering language.
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Glades People by Roxane Gay
Tricia loved to talk with her clients. That’s how she judged people.
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Cosmic Latte by Ron Huett
This is my introduction to the word and the last time I will ever speak it against another black person.
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Perennials by Shelley Wong
Still, I lose: I cannot even recall/our common silences. The years have transposed/into any year
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Ghost Child by Danusha Laméris
Only he is not my son. / He’s the one I was expecting that season / my belly grew taut as a honeydew.
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Hairy Govinda by Kathy Anderson
This old yoga lady next to me throws her legs up in the air and farts. That’s okay by me.
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Birds Sing to Breathe by Joe Bonomo
“She sings about idealized romance bruised by clumsy hands; she sings about drinking, and f***ing, and mornings waking up in dubious beds. She sometimes sings about her own career (“Paid”) and about singing. (And singers. Cue up “Steve Earle.”) I’m wondering how much of a story a voice, alone, can tell.”
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