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By Alan King
The diner's nearly empty
when you both arrive - except for
the six or so other patrons and
a waitress who calls everyone "Hun".
By Remica Bingham-Risher
I am almost convinced this morning by the volley
of verses on each frequency, roughnecks telling it
like they want it to be, intoning You bad, baby
By Truth Thomas
There are fists making tom toms of eardrums,
boots kicking downbeats in skulls,
in every state of tinted circles.
By Fred Joiner
a pocket can sometimes be
a kind of prison,
I have never lived in
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
By Dunya Mikhail
Our clay tablets are cracked
Scattered, like us, are the Sumerian letters
“Freedom” is inscribed this way:
By Martha Collins
Martha Collins performs the poem "On the Other Side" at the 2016 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
By Clint Smith
There is a lake here.
A lake the size of
outstretched arms. And no,
not the type of arms raised
By Heather Derr-Smith
The fish are opened up like salad bowls,
Slid between the metal bars of baskets,
Roasted in the wood-fired ovens, Iraqi style.
The flesh glows as if it were made of glass.
By Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello
I fell in love with a North Korean
by falling asleep on his shoulder
in a South Korean subway.