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By Bianca Lynne Spriggs
I get it.
We are strangers,
but I know the heart is a hive
and someone has knocked yours
from its high branch in your chest
By Tara Hardy
They call it dissociation.
I call it THE NINE (children)
who live inside me.
Each of them encased
in amber, frozen in a mosquito-pose
By Monica Rico
Past the breath that only stars have, I find myself
an open hand of night with pupils that eclipse the moon.
The blackness underneath my feet, not above where the sky is filled with sea.
My eyelash covers the arm of the galaxy with one word that means, here.
By Doritt Carroll
the first time it happened
i thought i was being strangled
four fingers compressing each side of my throat
By Cynthia Guardado
A black woman stands with two toddlers hanging off her hips.
Her balance is perfect as she pushes her luggage with one leg,
the boys curl into her shoulders unaware of how
they all slide forward. I offer her my help. Her face is serious
By Karenne Wood
1. A white poet whose work I admire said she feels most inspired on her daily four-mile walk through a forest.
2. I wish I had time to walk four miles daily. I can usually manage one mile with dogs. My dogs are distractible, and they distract me.
By Majda Gama
I wanted to be Her Kind, to go out a hennaed hand-
maiden, sneak across the rooftops of Jeddah dome-by-dome,
until I reached the coastline of the eternal bride.
By Evie Shockley
can i deduce the nature of humanity from the relationship of american and multinational pharmaceutical corporations to african women with hiv?
By Deborah A. Miranda
Wife and dogs have gone to bed.
I sit here with the front door open.
Crickets sing patiently, a long lullaby
in lazy harmony. Rain falls
By Tanya Paperny
click on a live stream
of a memorial event
to commemorate victims
of Soviet terror