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By Purvi Shah
The mehndi is leaving my hands,
brown swirls dissolving into brown skin.
Somewhere you are traveling
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 Kathleen Hellen
I sit in the front row of
bleachers -- cheap seats for greater grief.
By Robin Coste Lewis
Before leaving her they put stones in her vagina
The men will only be raped but the stones will be killed
The bush caught many men to go into the stones
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 Jeff Gundy
A good day for late wildflowers--daisies and burrs
leaned out into the path for a better view, brilliant
blue somethings with tiny blooms on tall stalks.
By Carly Sachs
Where does memory go?
Our windows looking out on the bay,
my wet clothes hanging on the antlers
By Jericho Brown
Not the palm, not the pear tree
Switch, not the broomstick,
Nor the closet extension
Cord, not his braided belt, but God
By Tara Betts
Quiet girl found a voice mama could not quell
inside Nutbush City Limits. The baby
blasted beyond timid Annie Mae into Tina