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By Reginald Dwayne Betts
Prison is the sinner’s bouquet, house of shredded & torn
Dear John letters, upended grave of names, moon
Black kiss of a pistol’s flat side, time blueborn
By Marie-Elizabeth Mali
Pulling out of Union Square station, the subway
sounds the first three notes of There's a place for us,
somewhere a place for us. A woman sits on me, shoves
By Sami Miranda
we is not the singular
dotted i, black figure against
a white background.
By Kim Roberts
Wheels, whisks, wishbones,
silhouette of a tiny pine.
Birds in flight and fiddlehead ferns.
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 Joseph O. Legaspi
slides down into my body, soft
lambs wool, what everybody
in school is wearing, and for me
By Judith Roche
They are only boys, though murderers and rapists.
Bad skin is an issue. Candy bars a treat.
Some are fathers. Few have fathers.
By Frank X Walker
When the universe reached out for your daughter's
daughter and she reached out for you, your hands
were too full of furniture to hold her
By Grace Cavalieri
Maybe she had dementia,
the old lady in the woolen hat,
I don't know, but she
By Kazim Ali
I was whispered along the road at Ache
toward the sun-puddled gate