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Camille T. Dungy

Arthritis is one thing, the hurting another

By Camille T. Dungy The poet's hands degenerate until her cup is too heavy.
You are not required to understand.
This is not the year for understanding.
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.
Deema K. Shehabi

Migrant Earth

By Deema K. Shehabi I could tell you that listening is made for the ashen sky,
and instead of the muezzin's voice, which lingers
like weeping at dawn,
Susan Brennan

Poets Against the War

By Susan Brennan We stand at the Capitol
seized in snapshots
of curious tourists
Zara Houshmand

Humor Difficult to Translate

By Zara Houshmand The label says Afghan Comedian
and nothing more, no artist, no provenance,
just a monitor’s unlidded eye embedded
Rich Villar

Always Here

By Rich Villar lacking a proper entrance
into a poem
about Arizona Senate Bill 1070
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
E. Ethelbert Miller

Austerity

By E. Ethelbert Miller We will all lose our jobs
if not today then tomorrow
Holly Bass

The Furious Dance

By Holly Bass What is a furious dance?
It is not polite.
Does not shuck and jive or shuffle along.
Jody Bolz

Mutanabbi Street

By Jody Bolz Pages flit above the ruined bookstalls.
Blank or dark with words, it doesn’t matter:
paper is as dangerous as ink—as thought.
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