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By Tatiana Figueroa Ramirez
I wake up to the alarm clocks
of cocks & gallinas struggling
for their corner of the callejón.
on the preheated concrete.
By Elizabeth Acevedo
My mouth cannot write you a white flag.
It will never be a Bible verse.
My mouth cannot be shaped into the apology
By Dan Vera
A is for apple.
B is for banana – treasure fruit of the tropics
which replaced the apple on the breakfast table of Victorian America.
C is for Carmen Miranda smiling
By Javier Zamora
His grandma made the best pupusas, the counselor wrote next to Stick-Figure Abuelita
(I’d colored her puffy hair black with a pen).
Earlier, Dad in his truck: “always look gringos in the eyes.”
Mom: “never tell them everything, but smile, always smile.”
By Ruth Irupé Sanabria
My grandfather asked me: could I remember
him, the park, the birds, the bread?
I’ll be dying soon, he said.
By Joshua Jennifer Espinoza
Like light but
in reverse we billow.
We turn a corner
and make the hills
By Sylvia Beato
for years you told no one
how you cried yourself to sleep
after the doctor held your hand
By Christopher Soto
I’m his // retired slut // on food stamps // forever
Sniffing horse tranquilizer // seeing digital dreams
Like a kitten // with eyes sewn shut // like syzygy
By Esther Lin
After learning his appointment was canceled
and his senior bus won’t come for another two
hours my father calls from his waiting room
By José B. González
my mouth agape for these english words made of stone
their sharpness could split my tongue, but one by one
i’ll use them to build a wall, one by one