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By Tara Hardy
They call it dissociation.
I call it THE NINE (children)
who live inside me.
Each of them encased
in amber, frozen in a mosquito-pose
By Tanya Paperny
click on a live stream
of a memorial event
to commemorate victims
of Soviet terror
By M. F. Simone Roberts
Begin with da Vinci’s hybrid
of spring and top, of wood and iron,
and completely non-aerodynamic,
then crystallize the blue of the lagoon
By Jeanann Verlee
In a humble, godless house
you moved through youth like any girl.
Dolls & other toys, yours,
By Ellen Bass
Today is gray, drizzling,
but not enough for drops to pool
on the tips of the silver needles
or soak the bark of the pines at Ponary—
By Jeneva Stone
close to the Nevada border salt
flats dry beds octagonal or hexed
one constant the wind another
dryness the two wicked all away
By Sarah Browning
After the great snow of 2016, my car sits
locked in icy drifts a week, green fossil
of the oil age preserved in graying amber.
By Caits Meissner
of course there were gaps I kept my eyes
shuddered up my curiosities strapped
amnesia on as a mask but only the dead do not dream.
By Claire Hermann
God separated the light from the darkness,
but I have a light switch.
Once there was morning and evening,
but now someone has torn the heart out of a mountain,
By Zahara Heckscher
This is a love song
to the invisible waves
that travel through the air
finding the antenna