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By Javier Zamora
His grandma made the best pupusas, the counselor wrote next to Stick-Figure Abuelita
(I’d colored her puffy hair black with a pen).
Earlier, Dad in his truck: “always look gringos in the eyes.”
Mom: “never tell them everything, but smile, always smile.”
By Sally Wen Mao
I’m sick of speaking for women who’ve died
Their stories and their disappearances
bludgeon me in my sleep
By Kazim Ali
I place the peach gummy on my tongue
I have come to Boulder, Colorado with an agenda which is what
It is my intention to rewrite the cosmic legislation which governs time and space to better allow for what I am for now calling the anarchy of sense
By Hieu Minh Nguyen
If things happen
the way they are supposed to
my mother will die before me.
By Ruth Irupé Sanabria
My grandfather asked me: could I remember
him, the park, the birds, the bread?
I’ll be dying soon, he said.
By Amanda Gorman
There’s a poem in this place—
in the footfalls in the halls
in the quiet beat of the seats.
It is here, at the curtain of day,
By Purvi Shah
You had a name no one
could hold between their
teeth. So they pronounced
By Reuben Jackson
Should my black
Lock on the other
By Esther Lin
After learning his appointment was canceled
and his senior bus won’t come for another two
hours my father calls from his waiting room
By Lauren Camp
The soup cooks for an hour while vultures and buzzards pluck the market.
My father wipes his forehead with a white cloth.
Once, each day began with khubz and samoon