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Bettina Judd Lucy didn’t scream like most. Though sometimes she
would moan--deep, long and overdue. I’d wake
thinking death. It’s her, knees curled under, head face
down, her body trying to move out of itself. Anarcha
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
David-Matthew Barnes I remember the rhythm at night:
Your hips wanting mine,
to grind our street-smart
Susan Scheid There we stood, dressed like Egyptians
or what we thought Egyptians should look like
from all our National Geographic magazines.
Truth Thomas Shayna reads the Word and takes
the story of that first miracle as
serious as unpaid electric bills in
Emily K. Bright It is nearly midnight and I'm
scrubbing at the grout.
The dishes, washed,
Margaret Rozga Let there be drums and harps,
piccolos and flutes, violins,
banjos and guitars.
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
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.
Marilyn Nelson Somebody took a picture of a class
standing in line to get polio shots,
and published it in the Weekly Reader.