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Ruth Irupé Sanabria My grandfather asked me: could I remember
him, the park, the birds, the bread?
I’ll be dying soon, he said.
Vincent Toro Like a charm of goldfinches we will gather. We will gather at the sea
crest and inside toppled cubicles, drawing upon this horizon of shady
treaties and chemical weapons depots as if cajoled toward the coast
Rigoberto González Fulgencio's silver crown--when he snores
the moon, coin of Judas, glaring
at the smaller metals we call stars
Charlie Bondhus At the mirror I heft
elbows, belly, cock,
say hematocrit—44.3; hemoglobin—15.2;
Alison Roh Park My daddy's hands were scarred
and through the smallest details escaped
years ago I remember them a strong
brown like here is the axe that missed
Vincent Toro A lung lit like diesel
is not fable or fodder.
Is not sewage siphoned from stern
and starboard. Cuffs, not slapdash plums
plunge from your garden
Roger Reeves The moths in the orchard squeal
with each pass of the mistral wind.
Yet the reapers and their scythes,
out beyond the pear trees, slay wheat
Ruth Irupé Sanabria I am the daughter of doves
That disappeared into dust
Hear my pulse whisper:
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.