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By Cathy Lihn Che
I see my mother at thirteen
in a village so small,
it's never given a name.
By Zohra Saed
Behave or the sleeping Alexander will reclaim your lungs.
Was once a cube of sugar
By Renée Ellen Olander
Yesterday, a ten-year old newcomer to a zoo
Fought her new mate, broke
Out of her cage, and galumphed
By Purvi Shah
The mehndi is leaving my hands,
brown swirls dissolving into brown skin.
Somewhere you are traveling
By Kathleen O'Toole
He arrived first as a student of geology
in the bicentennial year.
By Melanie Graham
She appears again, 2-year-old riding her hip,
grief so great he can see through her birkha, past Qualaday,
into the kitchen, his mother nurturing chicken
in popping grease.
By Lisa Suhair Majaj
If they ask you what you are,
say Arab. If they flinch, don't react,
just remember your great-aunt's eyes.
By Reginald Harris
walk long enough
with a pebble in your shoe
and walking with a pebble becomes
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