Skip to Content
By Camille T. Dungy
Pause here at the flower stand-mums
and gladiolas, purple carnations
dark as my heart.
By Jody Bolz
Pages flit above the ruined bookstalls.
Blank or dark with words, it doesn’t matter:
paper is as dangerous as ink—as thought.
By Carly Sachs
Where does memory go?
Our windows looking out on the bay,
my wet clothes hanging on the antlers
By Sholeh Wolpé
Here come the octopi of war
tentacles wielding guns, missiles
holy books and colorful flags.
By Jericho Brown
Not the palm, not the pear tree
Switch, not the broomstick,
Nor the closet extension
Cord, not his braided belt, but God
By Tara Betts
Quiet girl found a voice mama could not quell
inside Nutbush City Limits. The baby
blasted beyond timid Annie Mae into Tina
By Lori Desrosiers
I was the wrong kind of bride,
more sweat than glisten,
more peach than pomegranate.
By Randall Horton
The splintered body
The red-neck guards
By Philip Metres
In the green beginning,
in the morning mist,
they emerge from their chrysalis
By Remica L. Bingham
I enter to find all the students in uniform
occupying a small room.