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Liv Mammone

On the Subway for the First Time

By Liv Mammone The train is a creature that moves like water.
It has no eyes, only a sharp
mouth that closes on those too slow.
Michal ‘MJ’ Jones

THE MAGIC YOUR BODY BECOMES

By Michal 'MJ' Jones You are [found] in
cherry blossom trees / heron bird flight /rib-
bon of night / space between stairs / rose
Travis Chi Wing Lau

Pithy

By Travis Chi Wing Lau I shrug off my messenger onto the floor and forget to kiss you when I walk through the door.
Janlori Goldman

Ode to Jacob Blinder

By Janlori Goldman His face stared out into the living room
of my grandparents’ walk-up on E. 13th.
After they died my father hung him
Kimberly Blaeser

The Where in My Belly

By Kimberly Blaeser Scientists say my brain and heart
are 73 percent water—
they underestimate me.
Tamiko Beyer

Equinox

By Tamiko Beyer Dear child of the near future,
here is what I know—hawks

soar on the updraft and sparrows always
return to the seed source until they spot
Lisbeth White

Hull

By Lisbeth White At the end of the field are tracks
train metal iron sound called whistle
to me a blare that splits air before it
Naomi Ortiz

Tonight: Rebellious Resistance

By Naomi Ortiz base booms opposite my scooter
rattles
I am obstruction
Nathan Spoon

The Republic of Tenderness

By Nathan Spoon You are living inside the cup of another life. Water
is running slowly. Somewhere a hand is overflowing
with the abundance and celebration denizens dream of.
Peggy Robles-Alvarado

Pantoum For The Gyn That Asks If I Really Want More Children

By Peggy Robles-Alvarado She insists three kids are more than enough
Puerto Rican Tías are missing wombs
Tells me I’m still young, more than “just a mom”
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