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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.”
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
By Sally Wen Mao
I’m sick of speaking for women who’ve died
Their stories and their disappearances
bludgeon me in my sleep
By Kazim Ali
I place the peach gummy on my tongue
I have come to Boulder, Colorado with an agenda which is what
It is my intention to rewrite the cosmic legislation which governs time and space to better allow for what I am for now calling the anarchy of sense
By Hieu Minh Nguyen
If things happen
the way they are supposed to
my mother will die before me.
By Sarah Browning
After the great snow of 2016, my car sits
locked in icy drifts a week, green fossil
of the oil age preserved in graying amber.
By Melissa Tuckey
Unable to sleep,
the blankets wrapped in waves, waves
as tall as dreams,
the dream world trying to make sense
By Lena Khalaf Tuffaha
Behind the walls of your jails we wait
heartbeats audible now, muffled thuds
above the current of blood running thin
By Ruth Irupé Sanabria
My grandfather asked me: could I remember
him, the park, the birds, the bread?
I’ll be dying soon, he said.
By Amanda Gorman
There’s a poem in this place—
in the footfalls in the halls
in the quiet beat of the seats.
It is here, at the curtain of day,