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By Gwen Nell Westerman
Our elders say
the universe is a
By Everett Hoagland
Architect of icebergs, snowflakes,
crystals, rainbows, sand grains, dust motes, atoms.
Mason whose tools are glaciers, rain, rivers, ocean.
Chemist who made blood
By Deborah A. Miranda
Wife and dogs have gone to bed.
I sit here with the front door open.
Crickets sing patiently, a long lullaby
in lazy harmony. Rain falls
By Tanya Paperny
click on a live stream
of a memorial event
to commemorate victims
of Soviet terror
By M. F. Simone Roberts
Begin with da Vinci’s hybrid
of spring and top, of wood and iron,
and completely non-aerodynamic,
then crystallize the blue of the lagoon
By Ella Jaya Sran
to the screams.
to the glass-shattering pleas for life
that no one but they can hear.
to the wooden desks that were my sanctuary
By Danielle Badra
We are not born to be barons of wealth. We
are soft spoken wordsmiths, not soldiers. We are
not broken by hardship or hate. We are not
By Elizabeth Acevedo
My mouth cannot write you a white flag.
It will never be a Bible verse.
My mouth cannot be shaped into the apology
By Sonia Sanchez
There are women sailing the sky
I walk between them
They who wear silk, muslin and burlap skins touching mine
They who dance between urine and violets
By Jeneva Stone
close to the Nevada border salt
flats dry beds octagonal or hexed
one constant the wind another
dryness the two wicked all away