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Brenda Cárdenas

Nexus

By Brenda Cárdenas This body always compost--
hair a plot of thin green stems
snowing a shroud of petals,
Eduardo Corral

Cayucos

By Eduardo C. Corral A girl asleep beneath a fishing net
Sandals the color of tangerines
Off the coast of Morocco
Shadab Zeest Hashmi

Ghazal for the Ninth Month

By Shadab Zeest Hashmi Your august birth, my taking oath as an American, were only weeks apart.
The most I can remember is your rocking to a dull ache before we were apart.
Our hill was plush, the whole place soaked up the scent of raisin pulao.
David Mura

Minneapolis Public

By David Mura There are 150 first languages in our schools
and so many aliens even E.T. would go unnoticed,
though if your tongue moved one way in the land of your birth
Denise Bergman

A Building Away

By Denise Bergman She is a neighbor a building away, we talk weather and potholes, exchange
names Mary same as her daughter or is she Marissa or Maria I was distracted
her nephew was chewing the leg of his doll and the day was disappearing before
Richard Blanco

from One Today

By Richard Blanco All of us as vital as the one light we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
Dan Vera

The Borders Are Fluid Within Us

By Dan Vera This is what is feared:
that flags do not nourish the blood,
that history is not glorious or truthful.
Samiya Bashir

Manistee Lights

By Samiya Bashir Brother I don't either understand this
skipscrapple world that is--these
slick bubble cars zip feverish down
Richard Blanco

Looking for The Gulf Motel

By Richard Blanco The Gulf Motel with mermaid lampposts
and ship's wheel in the lobby should still be
rising out of the sand like a cake decoration.
Pages d. Matam

Ma Mere n’a Jamais eu des ailes (My momma never had wings)

By Pages Matam Ma Mere n'a Jamais eu des ailes
My momma never had wings
But she could tap dance on hurricanes
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