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Caits Meissner

13 Hours in the Future

By Caits Meissner I am 13 hours in the future & it is night / the rain is holding her breath
my friend, isn’t Penang opening to us! / a lotus unveiling a carnival
the paper lanterns are skirts / or balls pushed along by tiger’s nose
our smoke is a canon / dare devil on its way to an unnamed star
Dominique Christina

For Margaret Garner (28 days free until)

By Dominique Christina When the sun is pitiless
When the girl is a gust of get out fast
When the boys are forced to mingle with the forest
When the baby, still nursing leaves her mother
Tanya Olson

what else

By Tanya Olson What else should I want. But to
be a boy. A boy. At his mother’s hip.
A boy between. His father
and the plow. A boy to remain.
What else.
Martha Collins

Race/Race

By Martha Collins stock strain family line

breed blood skin shape


of the head of the pack
Charlie Bondhus

A Car, A Man, A Maraca

By Charlie Bondhus At the mirror I heft
elbows, belly, cock,
say hematocrit—44.3; hemoglobin—15.2;
neutrophils—62; monocytes—5.
David Ebenbach

Looking for a Job

By David Ebenbach What you want, at least, is the dignity
of a Sisyphus—you want to see yourself
on a hilltop, your muscles and hands
afire and chest roaring for breath, and
Susanna Lang

Kitchen, Donetsk

By Susanna Lang She had planned to offer peaches with the tea.

August was warm; the fruit had ripened to perfection.

She’d placed two paring knives on the cutting board,
set out the teapot with nasturtiums painted on the side.
Karen Finneyfrock

The Newer Colossus

By Karen Finneyfrock My feet have been wilting in this salt-crusted cement
since the French sent me over on a steamer in pieces.
I am the new Colossus, wonder of the modern world,
a woman standing watch at the gate of power.
Vincent Toro

Nonstop from Fruitvale to Ursa Major: Threnody for Los Desaparecidos* of The United States

By Vincent Toro A lung lit like diesel
is not fable or fodder.

Is not sewage siphoned from stern
and starboard. Cuffs, not slapdash plums
plunge from your garden
Leslie Anne Mcilroy

forge [fawrj, fohrj]

By Leslie Anne Mcilroy (1) to form by heating and hammering; beat into shape, as in the child’s back
burning, shoulders of flame, ribs of shame till she is no longer what she
was, but what you want her to be; 2) to form or make, especially by
concentrated effort, as in pride, see the girl, my girl, take credit, look what I
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