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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
Ella Jaya Sran to the screams.
to the glass-shattering pleas for life
that no one but they can hear.
to the wooden desks that were my sanctuary
Lauren (Lo) May twitter feminists will scream
my brown eyes be beautiful
while labeling the grey and green “exotic”
love my “black girl afro” when it's plucked and fluffy
Danielle Badra We are not born to be barons of wealth. We
are soft spoken wordsmiths, not soldiers. We are
not broken by hardship or hate. We are not
John James In Georgetown, IN, the steel projector reels.
The desert stretches blankly before us, a red
plain constellated with rows of dry mesquite.
Dan Vera A is for apple.
B is for banana – treasure fruit of the tropics
which replaced the apple on the breakfast table of Victorian America.
C is for Carmen Miranda smiling
Saida Agostini and the joke is right there, ready, shuddering
and alive - rife with promise. there are so many
paths that have been worn out for a quick
easy laugh: tyler perry strutting with a gun and wig,
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
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.