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By Penelope Scambly Schott
Back when I used to march
in the noon of the green world,
I sang like a crow.
By Jane Seitel
I wake into yet another day of doubt
creeping in as ants through a warped doorjamb.
The morning news brings new atrocities
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 Vanessa Huang
May you rest
By Rich Villar
lacking a proper entrance
into a poem
about Arizona Senate Bill 1070
By Patricia Monaghan
After the nightly news and four martinis
he quietly begins to draw the inner workings
of the bomb, knowing the explosion needed
By Yael Flusberg
after the first three hours
the temperature dropped to visible breath.
my fall coat no longer protected and my toes
By Kenneth Carroll
who will come to tell us what we know
that the king’s clothes are soiled with
the history of our blood and sweat
By Gregory Pardlo
Unfinished, the road turns off the fill
from the gulf coast, tracing the bay, to follow
the inland waterway.
By Jody Bolz
Pages flit above the ruined bookstalls.
Blank or dark with words, it doesn’t matter:
paper is as dangerous as ink—as thought.