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By Patricia Monaghan
Just past dawn in early fall,
a sparrow screamed at me
as I walked into the woods.
By Gowri Koneswaran
we're taught to hold hands
when we cross the street
or walk with our mothers in parking lots or
By Pages Matam
Ma Mere n'a Jamais eu des ailes
My momma never had wings
But she could tap dance on hurricanes
By Heather Holliger
She and I, our silences,
hesitations--at the grocery store,
in the taxi, on the street.
By Ellen Hagan
the ones who brought your father here, come. Bring
with them whole almonds, dried berries & clementines
wrapped in cloth. Their clothes & smart shoes too.
By Arhm Choi
If I fail my mouth this story plays again.
Back home he yanks mama's mouth
round into screams, burns
By Rachel McKibbens
The Mad Girls climb the wet hill,
breathe the sharp air through sick-green lungs.
The Wildest One wanders off like an old cow
By Venus Thrash
I am wearing a white tux with tails,
or a baby blue one with a ruffly shirt,
or decked out in classic black, or coolly
By Kathleen Hellen
I sit in the front row of
bleachers -- cheap seats for greater grief.