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By Kelli Stevens Kane
blueberry blackberry as always
bleeding, back road or boulevard,
our boy crowned with baton,
By Abdul Ali
My father and I run into each other at the edge of Lower Manhattan,
World Trade Center, where there’s a movie house.
We tiptoe down the slope, making our way to our seats.
By Ross Gay
Tumbling through the
city in my
mind without once
By Rayna Momen
Unprotected sex is a woman in America.
Unprotected sex is a woman in the world.
My body is my temple and will always be
it is not some place where you go to pray
By Adele Hampton
I'm not afraid to say abortion. It's a word that falls lead-heavy out of the mouth like your tongue can't handle the weight society hangs from its unassuming letters.
By Kevin Simmonds
I can write a poem
to the limbs of a grandmother
seeded in a scorched field
where her house stood
By Kamilah Aisha Moon
When you're gay in Dixie,
you're a clown of a desperate circus.
Sometimes the only way to be like daddy
By celeste doaks
Aaron and Anita, the first real twins I ever personally knew,
drum majored our ragged band in high school called--
the Marching LaSalle Lions. Anita was the outgoing,
By Reginald Harris
Get off here. This is a story you've
been told: these streets before the trash,
the rats, the crack-heads nodding to ghost