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the cedar tree could not comprehend
the crime could not comprehend a leaning
a lynching a love gone wrong
By Wo Chan
She closed the doors
and then the blinds
and then her face, midday.
By Keith Wilson
shall i tell you, then, that we exist?
there came a light, blue and white careening,
the police like wailing angels
to bitter me.
By Kaveh Akbar
Some days we can see Venus in mid-afternoon. Then at night, stars
separated by billions of miles, light travelling years
to die in the back of an eye.
By Dominique Christina
This poem is in video format.
By Jen Hofer
what dateless body what we exacted or nixed or hexed in the eternal present of not being able to – what not being able to not be considered garbage or trashed by the bag
By Clint Smith
There is a lake here.
A lake the size of
outstretched arms. And no,
not the type of arms raised
By Heather Derr-Smith
The fish are opened up like salad bowls,
Slid between the metal bars of baskets,
Roasted in the wood-fired ovens, Iraqi style.
The flesh glows as if it were made of glass.
By Patrick Rosal
A brisk sunset walk home: Lafayette Ave.
After weeks straight of triple layers
and double gloves, the day has inched