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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.
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 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,
By Susan Brennan
We stand at the Capitol
seized in snapshots
of curious tourists
By Zara Houshmand
The label says Afghan Comedian
and nothing more, no artist, no provenance,
just a monitor’s unlidded eye embedded
By Rich Villar
lacking a proper entrance
into a poem
about Arizona Senate Bill 1070
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
By E. Ethelbert Miller
We will all lose our jobs
if not today then tomorrow
By Holly Bass
What is a furious dance?
It is not polite.
Does not shuck and jive or shuffle along.
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.