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By Lourdes Galván
Utica is a pretty and quiet country
When I was at the bus station
my son would say to me, 'mom, I am hungry'
and a man who was sweeping came up to me
By Oliver de la Paz
The way is written in the dark:
it has steel in it, something metallic, a gun,
a mallet, a piece of machinery--
something cold like the sea, something,
By L. Lamar Wilson
She ambles about this Mickey-Dee kitchen’s din,
unmoved by the hot grease threatening
her ¿puedo tomar su orden? mask.
By Joseph O. Legaspi
Amphibians live in both.
Immigrants leave their land,
hardening in the sea.
Out of water.
By Chen Chen
My friend’s new neighbors in the suburbs
are planting a neat row of roses
between her house & theirs.
By Ross Gay
Tumbling through the
city in my
mind without once
By Leona Sevick
Instead, I spotted our mother in a tiny
chair in the back row, her blue-black head
shining unnaturally. She was dressed in
By Lisa Suhair Majaj
because wind soughs in the branches of trees
like blood sighing through veins
because in each country there are songs