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D. Gilson

Being Called a Faggot While Walking the Road to Clemson, South Carolina

By D. Gilson The honeysuckle dew slick
& sweet this morning
& only an empty Wendy's cup
thrown to ditch
Sara Brickman

Letter From the Water at Guantanamo Bay

By Sara Brickman They do not want me to be a river, but I am unstoppable.
I am the perfect instrument. Capable

of every sound, but here the only sound you hear under
me is No. Is, Please. The men
Kendra DeColo

The Strap-on Speaks

By Kendra DeColo It is easy to believe
we are separate entities,
you and I

as I wait, a fish in the chasm
Catherine Calabro

DAUGHTER

By Catherine Calabro Santa Maria della Pieve above us, and the light-speared trees.
At the cast-iron table you tried to tell
the gentleman how we were related,
how I came from you, or halves of you.
Constance Norgren

PHOTOGRAPH—GAYLANI, BAGHDAD

By Constance Norgren Who is she, standing just off-center,
her eyes on us, caught turning to us,
her arms folded over her chest,
Demetrice Anntía Worley

Femincide/Fimicidio ~ The Murdered and Disappeared Women of Ciudad Juarez, Mexico

By Demetrice Anntía Worley On this eve of the dead, I cry out loud,
“por favor Virgen de Guadalupe, don’t
forsake me,” before I open the door,
before I see la policía flat
Jenny Browne

The Center for the Intrepid

By Jenny Browne Wheeled onto the jet leaving
my town, another soldier

whose pruned body echoes earth
liberating itself from gravity.
Teresa Scollon

River, Page

By Teresa Scollon Look how you've carried these small bodies
across the ocean, looking for the next one
to hear the story. Look how gently you laid

these children down at the fire where stories are told.
Lauren K. Alleyne

Eighteen

By Lauren K. Alleyne Tonight you are full of small rivers:
your eyes’ salty runoff, the rust-bright
trickle staining your thigh, the unnamable,
Jill Khoury

Certain Seams

By Jill Khoury The boy across the street points at me and lisps—now I know what they mean in books
when they say children lisp. He wears a red and white striped t-shirt, addresses my friend who
walks beside me. I ask people to please walk on my left side. It’s the eye that’s not completely dead
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