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By Cameron Awkward-Rich
is what your father calls you now. Yes, you know
your father loves you
but each time he will not name you
you feel a hole
By Evie Shockley
can i deduce the nature of humanity from the relationship of american and multinational pharmaceutical corporations to african women with hiv?
By Everett Hoagland
Architect of icebergs, snowflakes,
crystals, rainbows, sand grains, dust motes, atoms.
Mason whose tools are glaciers, rain, rivers, ocean.
Chemist who made blood
By Jeanann Verlee
In a humble, godless house
you moved through youth like any girl.
Dolls & other toys, yours,
By Sharon Olds
They put roofs over our heads.
Ours was made of bent tiles,
so the edge of the roof had a broken look,
By Sonia Sanchez
There are women sailing the sky
I walk between them
They who wear silk, muslin and burlap skins touching mine
They who dance between urine and violets
By Melissa Tuckey
Unable to sleep,
the blankets wrapped in waves, waves
as tall as dreams,
the dream world trying to make sense
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 Caits Meissner
of course there were gaps I kept my eyes
shuddered up my curiosities strapped
amnesia on as a mask but only the dead do not dream.