Skip to Content
By Pages Matam
Ma Mere n'a Jamais eu des ailes
My momma never had wings
But she could tap dance on hurricanes
By Purvi Shah
The mehndi is leaving my hands,
brown swirls dissolving into brown skin.
Somewhere you are traveling
By Joseph Ross
In a summer of snipers
some men raised their hands
with fingers pressed
By Joseph O. Legaspi
slides down into my body, soft
lambs wool, what everybody
in school is wearing, and for me
By Holly Bass
What is a furious dance?
It is not polite.
Does not shuck and jive or shuffle along.
By Kenneth Carroll
who will come to tell us what we know
that the king’s clothes are soiled with
the history of our blood and sweat
By Philip Metres
In the green beginning,
in the morning mist,
they emerge from their chrysalis
By David Keplinger
Lincoln, leaving Springfield, 1861,
Boards a train with a salute: but it is weak.
To correct it, he slides his hand away