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Javier Zamora

from The Book I Made with a Counselor My First Week of School

By Javier Zamora His grandma made the best pupusas, the counselor wrote next to Stick-Figure Abuelita
(I’d colored her puffy hair black with a pen).

Earlier, Dad in his truck: “always look gringos in the eyes.”
Mom: “never tell them everything, but smile, always smile.”
Jeneva Stone

Death Valley, California

By Jeneva Stone close to the Nevada border salt
flats dry beds octagonal or hexed

one constant the wind another
dryness the two wicked all away
Remica Bingham-Risher

Love in Stereo

By Remica Bingham-Risher I am almost convinced this morning by the volley
of verses on each frequency, roughnecks telling it

like they want it to be, intoning You bad, baby
Susan Eisenberg

As I Pay Forty Dollars

By Susan Eisenberg for my asthma inhaler that
last year cost fifteen
I pause for the mom
Purvi Shah

Saraswati praises your name even when you have no choice

By Purvi Shah You had a name no one
could hold between their
teeth. So they pronounced
Wo Chan

my mother watches her mother’s funeral footage again

By Wo Chan She closed the doors
and then the blinds
and then her face, midday.
Ellen Kombiyil

Deported

By Ellen Kombiyil We are on the plane now
crossing ocean. The pressurized
air is sweet not stale never
stale, the cabin set for
Purvi Shah

Shooting for the Sky

By Purvi Shah Under sky massaged by sun, from a comfortable chair, I watch
the rain stroke a myrtle tree. Naked
rain, my father says. Naked,
Samantha Thornhill

House of the Rising

By Samantha Thornhill Give thanks to your mansion
of a mama in that cold square room

the push and pull
of breath that brought
Reginald Dwayne Betts

When I Think of Tamir Rice While Driving

By Reginald Dwayne Betts
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