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By Yvette Neisser Moreno
So this is how they decided to take him—
at the end of his life,
his frame shrunken, his wild rambling days over
By Judith Roche
They are only boys, though murderers and rapists.
Bad skin is an issue. Candy bars a treat.
Some are fathers. Few have fathers.
By Tiffany Higgins
I shall build a city upon a hill
and upon a hill and upon a hill and upon a hill
I am a little shepherd piping low
By Mark Doty
Between the bridge and the river
he falls through
a huge portion of night
By Sonja de Vries
a scar starting below his
cheekbone ran down the length
of his face like a road map
By Jeff Gundy
A good day for late wildflowers--daisies and burrs
leaned out into the path for a better view, brilliant
blue somethings with tiny blooms on tall stalks.
By Alison Roh Park
If it were not so scarred from your accidental
rages—uptown, upstate—I would have rested
on the cinder block of your chest.
By Lauren K. Alleyne
Here is the night snarled with stars, here is the smile
full of teeth. Here is the bloom of desire, its scent swift
entering everything. Here are the arms, the legs, the heady
By Camille T. Dungy
Pause here at the flower stand-mums
and gladiolas, purple carnations
dark as my heart.
By Carly Sachs
Where does memory go?
Our windows looking out on the bay,
my wet clothes hanging on the antlers