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By Patricia Monaghan
They were always taught that all guns were loaded.
It was a way, he said, to keep them safe.
Don't you notice, he said, how people get shot
By Ruth Forman
why so afraid to stand up?
someone will tell you
By Jericho Brown
They said to say goodnight
And not goodbye, unplugged
The TV when it rained. They hid
By Remica L. Bingham
The weight of my parents,
the dawn of them;
my grandmother's lackluster
By Adam Wiedewitsch
in blue earth, among willows, aisles
of box-elder, elms, in the silence between
on the sand-bar in front
By Brian Fanelli
Every Sunday, I came dressed in punk rocker black,
checkered pants, steel-toed Docs.
No tie dye on me when I joined
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.
By Carmen Calatayud
Some generations ago,
you were a Zapatista
inside your great-grandmother's
By Cathy Lihn Che
I see my mother at thirteen
in a village so small,
it's never given a name.
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.