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Rachel Simon

Postmark from the Transition

By Rachel M. Simon the name altered from parent's choosing
the threshold of a home
white gloves on the windowsill
Pages d. Matam

Ma Mere n’a Jamais eu des ailes (My momma never had wings)

By Pages Matam Ma Mere n'a Jamais eu des ailes
My momma never had wings
But she could tap dance on hurricanes
celeste doaks

American Herstory

By celeste doaks Tell them it's always under attack. Tell them there's no cure
for the disease, or answer to the riddle. Tell them you asked many
before you, some who won, some who lost.
Stephen Zerance

Skintight

By Stephen Zerance My father hands me gifts he bought Christmas Eve:
an extra-large broadcloth and thirty-four waist khakis.
I dress different from the boys at school. My shirts fall
María Luisa Arroyo

barreras

By María Luisa Arroyo Mami called us away from the roach trap line
where novice factory workers, fresh from the island,
and I, fresh from Germany, poked
Zein El-Amine

How to write a poem, according to Souha Bechara

By Zein El-Amine Sit in their circle.
Don't let your eyes linger
on any object in the room.
DaMaris B. Hill

Stewing

By DaMaris B. Hill I dream of hounds. Their teeth loose in my veins.
Their howls consume me. They growl and feast.
She whispers not to run. I can't refrain.
Arhm Choi

How Manifestos Are Made

By Arhm Choi If I fail my mouth this story plays again.
Back home he yanks mama's mouth
round into screams, burns
Purvi Shah

Loss is an art, traversing one world to the next

By Purvi Shah The mehndi is leaving my hands,
brown swirls dissolving into brown skin.
Somewhere you are traveling
Rachel McKibbens

Across the Street from the Whitmore Home for Girls, 1949

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
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