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Katherine E. Young This is the poem meant for this mo(u)rning,
now the winds have died down,
the dogwood’s unclenched its frightened fists,
and the morning’s calling
Seema Reza When the soldier knocks on your door, billet book in hand, move aside
to let him enter. He will wipe his feet, remove his hat
(you’ll learn to call it a cover)
he will be polite, place his rifle by the door
Sherwin Bitsui Father's dying ceased
when he refunded this ours
for fused hands plaster-coated
Ella Jaya Sran to the screams.
to the glass-shattering pleas for life
that no one but they can hear.
to the wooden desks that were my sanctuary
Lauren (Lo) May twitter feminists will scream
my brown eyes be beautiful
while labeling the grey and green “exotic”
love my “black girl afro” when it's plucked and fluffy
Jeanann Verlee In a humble, godless house
you moved through youth like any girl.
Dolls & other toys, yours,
Paul Tran Desert born. Wild
As corn. Dry
Bitch. Itchy clit.
Danielle Badra We are not born to be barons of wealth. We
are soft spoken wordsmiths, not soldiers. We are
not broken by hardship or hate. We are not
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
Camille T. Dungy Is it difficult to get away from it all once you've had a child?
I am swaying in the galley — working
to appease this infant who is not