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Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano Brown is the color of my god’s skin.
Gentle, curvy, older than a Spanish whip.
My god abides outside of sin,
no water needed to baptize the newly born.
Catherine Klatzker The world was always a place of silence,
of congenital shame—even before those days
in 1967, four years before you met your love. Your
strength grew belatedly, fertilized as it was in the
knowledge that you were nothing. Your life did
not matter to anyone, except to hurt you.
Sholeh Wolpé Last night a sparrow flew into my house,
crashed against the skylight and died:
I want to write a love song.
Hari Alluri the tea in her glass. It glows the brocade.
Her grandmother picked that tea
on a mountain—a mountain in a war
whose shores were her bed. Steeping, the petals
Kazumi Chin The very last mammoth was just like the others,
except more lonely. The very last tortilla chip
makes me feel guilty.The very last line
of the poem changes everything about
Elmaz Abinader Our skin has turned to parchment
Our skin has turned to parchment
Our skin are the scrolls upon which
This history will be written
Kenji Liu Ask me again why I am here
with this pine, this wild oyamel,
their great succulence of reason
You, machine lyric
and State, every state,
Amber Flame like heartbreak, you are sure
that your story is different. felt
not worst but not exactly
explainable to anyone else