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By Gowri Koneswaran
we're taught to hold hands
when we cross the street
or walk with our mothers in parking lots or
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
By Jonathan B. Tucker
pardon our appearance
as we grow to better serve you
says the sign on the fence
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 Joel Dias-Porter
is a story of steam,
a swarm of hornets,
By Rachel McKibbens
The Mad Girls climb the wet hill,
breathe the sharp air through sick-green lungs.
The Wildest One wanders off like an old cow
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
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.
By Antoinette Brim
Let the moon untangle itself
from the clothesline, as coming daylight
diminishes its lamp to memory.
By Nahshon Cook
Then he explained
how the Buddha
to reflect on the body