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By David Tomas Martinez
It's not water to wine to swallow harm,
though many of us have,
and changing the name
By Joy Harjo
This city is made of stone, of blood, and fish.
There are Chugatch Mountains to the east
and whale and seal to the west.
By Sheila Black
My daughter works in the Apple Store--the Help Center, open 24-7,
people from all fifty states, angry because their iPhones
malfunctioned or they don't know how to program their data
By Jacob Rakovan
The bones cast in the field like seed corn grow nothing,
grow briars in the boarded gas stations
brown stalks ready for the fire.
By Jericho Brown
They said to say goodnight
And not goodbye, unplugged
The TV when it rained. They hid
By Remica L. Bingham
The weight of my parents,
the dawn of them;
my grandmother's lackluster
By Emily K. Bright
It is nearly midnight and I'm
scrubbing at the grout.
The dishes, washed,
By Samiya Bashir
Brother I don't either understand this
skipscrapple world that is--these
slick bubble cars zip feverish down
By Jamaal May
Hold a pomegranate in your palm,
imagine ways to split it, think of the breaking
skin as shrapnel. Remember granada
By Brian Fanelli
Every Sunday, I came dressed in punk rocker black,
checkered pants, steel-toed Docs.
No tie dye on me when I joined