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Sunu P. Chandy

Too Pretty

By Sunu P. Chandy October on the subway, roses at my side
kids being loud. One skinny girl
with a cap and a pretty smile
gets up to give me her seat
Regie Cabico

Teaching Gender Segregated Sex Writing Class

By Regie Cabico I get to edit penis poems and feel like Michelangelo
Making masterpieces of what is private and unsculpted
Beneath the writing table
All I have to say is My penis is…
Fatimah Asghar

america

By Fatimah Asghar am I not your baby?
brown & not allowed

my own language?
my teeth pulled
Craig Santos Perez

Twinkle, Twinkle, Morning Star

By Craig Santos Perez kaikainaliʻi wakes from her late afternoon nap
and reaches for nālani with small open hands—

count how many papuan children
still reach for their disappeared parents—
Geffrey Davis

What I Mean When I Say Truck Driver

By Geffrey Davis During the last 50 miles back from haul & some
months past my 15th birthday, my father fishes
a stuffed polar bear from a Salvation Army
gift-bin, labeled Boys: 6-10. I can almost see him
Alison Roh Park

My Father’s Hands

By Alison Roh Park My daddy's hands were scarred
and through the smallest details escaped
years ago I remember them a strong
brown like here is the axe that missed
Hari Alluri

The Opposite of Holding in Breath—

By 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 Last New Year’s Resolution

By 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
Fatimah Asghar

Photo Albums

By Fatimah Asghar The names of my family members swirl
like dust in my lungs. I try to write about birds

& only pull from my pen animal skin.
My bones alive & a lament of dignified grief
Jose Padua

Grinderman

By Jose Padua
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