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Tanya Olson

what else

By Tanya Olson What else should I want. But to
be a boy. A boy. At his mother’s hip.
A boy between. His father
and the plow. A boy to remain.
What else.
Naomi Ayala

Within Me

By Naomi Ayala
Cacayo Ballesteros

Any Given Name

By Cacayo Ballesteros Chapas is what cops are called
in my country
who threw the too tortured
in the lion pits
of the Military Academy zoo
Myra Sklarew

Exchange

By Myra Sklarew
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.

Abdul Ali

Amistad

By Abdul Ali My father and I run into each other at the edge of Lower Manhattan,
World Trade Center, where there’s a movie house.

We tiptoe down the slope, making our way to our seats.
Leona Sevick

White

By Leona Sevick Instead, I spotted our mother in a tiny
chair in the back row, her blue-black head
shining unnaturally. She was dressed in
Naomi Ayala

No. 13, for Remembering

By Naomi Ayala Two blocks away
where yellow cabs
zip by without stopping
Myra Sklarew

Infinite Regress of War

By Myra Sklarew In the mirror of infinite regress
go back. Go back to Vietnam. To a man
who can spot a trip wire fine as a hair,
Truth Thomas

Sunday Kind of Love

By Truth Thomas Shayna reads the Word and takes
the story of that first miracle as
serious as unpaid electric bills in
winter
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