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Deborah A. Miranda

Almost Midnight

By Deborah A. Miranda Wife and dogs have gone to bed.
I sit here with the front door open.

Crickets sing patiently, a long lullaby
in lazy harmony. Rain falls

Kim Marshall

Spring

By Kim Marshall We rush toward change, ask:
how much
do you love me?
Terisa Siagatonu

The Day After American Samoa Is Under Water

By Terisa Siagatonu The evening news helicopters compete for the best camera angle
above the water, fighting to find anything worthy of coverage.

A floating high chief. A baby’s arm flattened by a coconut tree. Anything.
Even the Titanic was enormous enough to leave remnants of itself
Sherwin Bitsui

from Dissolve

By Sherwin Bitsui Father's dying ceased
when he refunded this ours
for fused hands plaster-coated
Paul Tran

The Santa Ana

By Paul Tran Desert born. Wild
As corn. Dry
Bitch. Itchy clit.
Meteorologists
John James

Spaghetti Western

By John James In Georgetown, IN, the steel projector reels.
The desert stretches blankly before us, a red
plain constellated with rows of dry mesquite.
Dan Vera

Abecedarian Yellow

By Dan Vera A is for apple.
B is for banana – treasure fruit of the tropics
which replaced the apple on the breakfast table of Victorian America.
C is for Carmen Miranda smiling
Sonia Sanchez

Aaaayeee Babo (Praise God)

By Sonia Sanchez There are women sailing the sky
I walk between them
They who wear silk, muslin and burlap skins touching mine
They who dance between urine and violets
Jeneva Stone

Death Valley, California

By Jeneva Stone close to the Nevada border salt
flats dry beds octagonal or hexed

one constant the wind another
dryness the two wicked all away
Sarah Browning

Gas

By Sarah Browning After the great snow of 2016, my car sits
locked in icy drifts a week, green fossil
of the oil age preserved in graying amber.
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