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By Leona Sevick
Instead, I spotted our mother in a tiny
chair in the back row, her blue-black head
shining unnaturally. She was dressed in
By David-Matthew Barnes
I remember the rhythm at night:
Your hips wanting mine,
to grind our street-smart
By Susan Scheid
There we stood, dressed like Egyptians
or what we thought Egyptians should look like
from all our National Geographic magazines.
By Truth Thomas
Shayna reads the Word and takes
the story of that first miracle as
serious as unpaid electric bills in
By Emily K. Bright
It is nearly midnight and I'm
scrubbing at the grout.
The dishes, washed,
By Margaret Rozga
Let there be drums and harps,
piccolos and flutes, violins,
banjos and guitars.
By Meg Eden
I look for a man's hand inside
the folds of my purse, and find
a pattern that recalls a finger print, the way
By Camille T. Dungy
The poet's hands degenerate until her cup is too heavy.
You are not required to understand.
This is not the year for understanding.
By Marilyn Nelson
Somebody took a picture of a class
standing in line to get polio shots,
and published it in the Weekly Reader.
By Antoinette Brim
Let the moon untangle itself
from the clothesline, as coming daylight
diminishes its lamp to memory.