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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.
Lisa L. Moore

Cowgirl Filibuster

By Lisa L. Moore Word got out about the bad bill.
College students packed up their bikinis,
went back to Austin to tell those men why
Jericho Brown

‘N’em

By Jericho Brown They said to say goodnight
And not goodbye, unplugged
The TV when it rained. They hid
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.
Patricia Monaghan

Red-Tailed Hawk

By Patricia Monaghan Just past dawn in early fall,
a sparrow screamed at me
as I walked into the woods.
Gowri Koneswaran

Hold

By Gowri Koneswaran we're taught to hold hands
when we cross the street
or walk with our mothers in parking lots or
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
Heather Holliger

Margins

By Heather Holliger She and I, our silences,
hesitations--at the grocery store,
in the taxi, on the street.
Ellen Hagan

Before Your Arrival

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.
Arhm Choi

How Manifestos Are Made

By Arhm Choi If I fail my mouth this story plays again.
Back home he yanks mama's mouth
round into screams, burns
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