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By Melissa Tuckey
A roadside bomb is planted in every chest
I was a pea sized fist in the dirt of a man
who had half your brains
By Patricia Monaghan
Just past dawn in early fall,
a sparrow screamed at me
as I walked into the woods.
By Rachel M. Simon
the name altered from parent's choosing
the threshold of a home
white gloves on the windowsill
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.
By Sheila Black
The brace was metal, and it fastened around the ankles.
Outside in the street there was the beggar with elephantiasis; there was
the leper, the neighbor with eyes milky blind,
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 Melanie Graham
She appears again, 2-year-old riding her hip,
grief so great he can see through her birkha, past Qualaday,
into the kitchen, his mother nurturing chicken
in popping grease.
By Jaime Lee Jarvis
Was it the rush of words in that language
we understood only when we cocked our heads,
speaking on the slant, slurring our way
By Richard McCann
What I could not accept was how much space
his body was taking with it: for instance, the space where
I was standing, the dazed fluorescence of his hospital room
By Fady Joudah
When the shooting began
Everyone ran to the trucks
Grabbed whatever their backs needed
And made for the trucks