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Sheila Black

Rosary for my Brace

By Sheila Black The brace was metal, and it fastened around the ankles.
Outside in the street there was the beggar with elephantiasis; there was
the leper, the neighbor with eyes milky blind,
Minnie Bruce Pratt

The Street of Broken Dreams

By Minnie Bruce Pratt The dog lunged at me and choked on its chain
guarding a house on the street of broken dreams.
What does it take to be safe? A sun-porch window
Kathy Engel

I Will Not

By Kathy Engel write about the killing of Troy Davis or
the years he claimed innocence so many times
the words fell from his mouth like drops of honey.
Antoinette Brim

Let Daylight Come (Little Rock, circa 2008)

By Antoinette Brim Let the moon untangle itself
from the clothesline, as coming daylight
diminishes its lamp to memory.
Jose Padua

Take a Giant Step

By Jose Padua All the out of business auto body shops
on this slow highway, all the abandoned
buildings with peeling paint, the vacant
Rich Villar

Always Here

By Rich Villar lacking a proper entrance
into a poem
about Arizona Senate Bill 1070
Sami Miranda

we is

By Sami Miranda we is not the singular
dotted i, black figure against
a white background.
Joseph O. Legaspi

The Red Sweater

By Joseph O. Legaspi slides down into my body, soft
lambs wool, what everybody
in school is wearing, and for me
Judith Roche

Throw Aways

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.
Patricia Spears Jones

Autumn, New York, 1999

By Patricia Spears Jones And I am full of worry I wrote to a friend
Worry, she replied about what—love, money, health?
All of them, I wrote back. It’s autumn, the air is clear
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