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By Emily K. Bright
It is nearly midnight and I'm
scrubbing at the grout.
The dishes, washed,
By Samiya Bashir
Brother I don't either understand this
skipscrapple world that is--these
slick bubble cars zip feverish down
By Beth Copeland
What do the howling hounds hear that we can't?
The moon sharpens its sword on the Earth's stone.
Palm trees on the shores of the Tigris stand sentinel,
By Patricia Monaghan
Just past dawn in early fall,
a sparrow screamed at me
as I walked into the woods.
By Rachel M. Simon
the name altered from parent's choosing
the threshold of a home
white gloves on the windowsill
By Margaret Rozga
Let there be drums and harps,
piccolos and flutes, violins,
banjos and guitars.
By Yvette Neisser Moreno
Something tender about skin
and muscle framed by ancient stone.
The pyramids behind us in silhouette,
By Daniela Elza
I drink a blood sunset down Cardinal Avenue.
my shoes soaked poppies my mind quiet as
a book with a bomb in its mouth.
By celeste doaks
Tell them it's always under attack. Tell them there's no cure
for the disease, or answer to the riddle. Tell them you asked many
before you, some who won, some who lost.
By Kamilah Aisha Moon
Huge dashes in the sand, two or three
times a year they swim like words
in a sentence toward the period