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By Purvi Shah
The mehndi is leaving my hands,
brown swirls dissolving into brown skin.
Somewhere you are traveling
By Daniel Nathan Terry
That Andersonville was a camp of nightmares,
a dark machine that brought slow death
to nearly 13,000 men, is not in dispute.
By Nancy C. Otter
The soldier who stopped my father's truck
at the Chiapas border crossing in 1983
might have worked for that man
By Joseph Ross
In a summer of snipers
some men raised their hands
with fingers pressed
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 Sonia Sanchez
Your limbs buried
in northern muscle carry
their own heartbeat
By Marilyn Nelson
Somebody took a picture of a class
standing in line to get polio shots,
and published it in the Weekly Reader.
By Venus Thrash
I am wearing a white tux with tails,
or a baby blue one with a ruffly shirt,
or decked out in classic black, or coolly
By Kim Roberts
O augury seeker,
know and be aware...
In the book of divination,