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By Dunya Mikhail
Our clay tablets are cracked
Scattered, like us, are the Sumerian letters
“Freedom” is inscribed this way:
By Kathy Engel
Praise the words and what
defies words, the mamas and
fathers, all the beloveds
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 Luis Alberto Ambroggio
Poetry might never have seen
that categorical word,
but in its charged belligerence
of emotions and in its profound determination,
By Jeanann Verlee
I finish a small hot plate of grease & salt, & push the scraped-clean plate across the counter for someone else to scrub / this, I say I have paid for but it doesn't fit
By Holly Karapetkova
There never was a garden
only a leaving:
miles and miles
of footprints in the dirt.
By Jee Leong Koh
My grandfather said life was better under the British.
He was a man who begrudged his words but he did say this.
I was born after the British left
an alphabet in my house, the same book they left in school.
By Patrick Rosal
A brisk sunset walk home: Lafayette Ave.
After weeks straight of triple layers
and double gloves, the day has inched
By Denice Frohman
By now, you know their names, their cheekbones—
the tender hands they offered when you walked in.
You know the quivering strength of prayer and the art of making God listen.
How faith can summon weary backbones into pyramids.
By Dawn Lundy Martin
The American middle class is screwed again but they don’t know it.
Politics is a gleaming nowhere. Žižek fantasizes about Capitalism’s