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Julie Enszer

Zyklon B

By Julie Enszer The painters call before we move into the new house. Ma’am, they say—

I am not old enough to be a ma’am, but I don’t correct them—
Ma’am, they say, we smell gas.

I dismiss their concern. I say, Keep painting.

Nadia Sheikh

A Wet Daydream

By Nadia Sheikh I let Shane Kennedy
reach back in his desk
to fondle my calf,
soft and buttery
Sara Brickman

Letter From the Water at Guantanamo Bay

By Sara Brickman They do not want me to be a river, but I am unstoppable.
I am the perfect instrument. Capable

of every sound, but here the only sound you hear under
me is No. Is, Please. The men
Rachel Eliza Griffiths

Elegy

By Rachel Eliza Griffiths I remember the boys & their open hands. High fives
of farewell. I remember that the birches waved too,
the white jagged limbs turning away from incessant wildfires
Joshua Weiner

Hikmet: Çankiri Prison, 1938

By Joshua Weiner Today is Sunday.
Today, for the first time, they let me go out into the sun.
And I stood there I didn't move,
struck for the first time, the very first time ever:
Kelli Stevens Kane

bitter crop

By Kelli Stevens Kane blueberry blackberry as always
bleeding, back road or boulevard,
our boy crowned with baton,
Allison Adelle Hedge Coke

First Morning Poem

By Allison Adelle Hedge Coke In a room facing chimneys
over the place Nancy Morejón rests
between sleeps lining free lines
she whispers to hearing DC:
Jody Bolz

Black Site

By Jody Bolz First, take away light.

Leave time—but make it dark,
disordered. Make it sleepless.
Not day, not night.
Sam Taylor

Past Tense

By Sam Taylor And someone in a field found an old car
from the year black with beetles, eaten like lace,
and the sky fell into it, a private thing.
And everyone had a kitchen or a fold-out bed
Jennifer Chang

Dorothy Wordsworth

By Jennifer Chang The daffodils can go fuck themselves.
I’m tired of their crowds, yellow rantings
about the spastic sun that shines and shines
and shines. How are they any different
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