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By Yvette Neisser Moreno
So this is how they decided to take him—
at the end of his life,
his frame shrunken, his wild rambling days over
By Patricia Monaghan
After the nightly news and four martinis
he quietly begins to draw the inner workings
of the bomb, knowing the explosion needed
By Patricia Spears Jones
And I am full of worry I wrote to a friend
Worry, she replied about what—love, money, health?
All of them, I wrote back. It’s autumn, the air is clear
By Alison Roh Park
If it were not so scarred from your accidental
rages—uptown, upstate—I would have rested
on the cinder block of your chest.
By Heather Davis
The lights in your home channel 29 men, their
soot stained clothes, last breaths, crystalline sweat
let loose on black rock
By Camille T. Dungy
Pause here at the flower stand-mums
and gladiolas, purple carnations
dark as my heart.
By Jody Bolz
Pages flit above the ruined bookstalls.
Blank or dark with words, it doesn’t matter:
paper is as dangerous as ink—as thought.
By Carly Sachs
Where does memory go?
Our windows looking out on the bay,
my wet clothes hanging on the antlers
By Tara Betts
Quiet girl found a voice mama could not quell
inside Nutbush City Limits. The baby
blasted beyond timid Annie Mae into Tina
By Lori Desrosiers
I was the wrong kind of bride,
more sweat than glisten,
more peach than pomegranate.