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Katherine E. Young This is the poem meant for this mo(u)rning,
now the winds have died down,
the dogwood’s unclenched its frightened fists,
and the morning’s calling
Seema Reza When the soldier knocks on your door, billet book in hand, move aside
to let him enter. He will wipe his feet, remove his hat
(you’ll learn to call it a cover)
he will be polite, place his rifle by the door
Solmaz Sharif Lovely dinner party. Darling CASUALTIES and lean
sirloin DAMAGE of the COLLATERAL sort.
Extended my LETTER OF OFFER AND ACCEPTANCE
to the DESIRED INTERNAL AUDIENCE, reaching
Ilya Kaminsky I watched a sergeant aim, the deaf boy take iron and fire in his mouth—
his face on the asphalt,
that map of bone and opened valves.
It’s the air. Something in the air wants us too much
Ellen Bass Today is gray, drizzling,
but not enough for drops to pool
on the tips of the silver needles
or soak the bark of the pines at Ponary—
Jeneva Stone close to the Nevada border salt
flats dry beds octagonal or hexed
one constant the wind another
dryness the two wicked all away
Kazim Ali I place the peach gummy on my tongue
I have come to Boulder, Colorado with an agenda which is what
It is my intention to rewrite the cosmic legislation which governs time and space to better allow for what I am for now calling the anarchy of sense
Sarah Browning After the great snow of 2016, my car sits
locked in icy drifts a week, green fossil
of the oil age preserved in graying amber.
Lena Khalaf Tuffaha Behind the walls of your jails we wait
heartbeats audible now, muffled thuds
above the current of blood running thin
Ruth Irupé Sanabria My grandfather asked me: could I remember
him, the park, the birds, the bread?
I’ll be dying soon, he said.