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By Patricia Monaghan
After the nightly news and four martinis
he quietly begins to draw the inner workings
of the bomb, knowing the explosion needed
By Tiffany Higgins
I shall build a city upon a hill
and upon a hill and upon a hill and upon a hill
I am a little shepherd piping low
By Jeff Gundy
A good day for late wildflowers--daisies and burrs
leaned out into the path for a better view, brilliant
blue somethings with tiny blooms on tall stalks.
By Heather Davis
The lights in your home channel 29 men, their
soot stained clothes, last breaths, crystalline sweat
let loose on black rock
By Chris August
America, don’t we love like oil?
Don’t our slippery arms
Pave the pores of those who need us?
By Jody Bolz
Pages flit above the ruined bookstalls.
Blank or dark with words, it doesn’t matter:
paper is as dangerous as ink—as thought.
By Carly Sachs
Where does memory go?
Our windows looking out on the bay,
my wet clothes hanging on the antlers
By Tara Betts
Quiet girl found a voice mama could not quell
inside Nutbush City Limits. The baby
blasted beyond timid Annie Mae into Tina
By Lori Desrosiers
I was the wrong kind of bride,
more sweat than glisten,
more peach than pomegranate.
By Lee Sharkey
What do you do with an eye in the cup of your hand?
What do you see that you didn't?
What do you make of a sphere of jelly with fins of torn muscle?