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On a Playground in Park Slope, Brooklyn a Retired Neurologist from Beijing is Cursing

By Wang Ping

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Tsunami Chant

By Wang Ping I'm not a singer, but please
let me sing of the peacemakers
on the streets and internet, your candles

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Solstice in Lhasa

By Wang Ping What more can you say
Nomad daughter of glaciers?
City has bleached the sun from your face

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poem of the week

ARS POLITICA: HOW TO MAKE ART

by: Laurie Ann Guerrero

Trust your hands know the work
even if you do not know the work.

You do not speak for the dead.

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Cactus Flower

by: Amir Rabiyah

We learn to thrive
in the dry humor of soil;
carry water in our bellies
to quench our own thirst.

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To the woman I saw today who wept in her car

by: Bianca Lynne Spriggs

Woman,
I know you.
I know how that thing
when left unattended
will show up as a typhoon
at your front door

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THE NINE

by: Tara Hardy

They call it dissociation. I call it containers
in which I horror-stored. Each of which have to be
opened, reheated, rolled out like a lava carpet
and crawled on.

(CW: childhood trauma & sexual violence)

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The Universe, According to Rufino Tamayo

by: Monica Rico

I have hidden my teeth for days. I’m afraid / they will spill and become silver streetlights in competition with the marble gleam of the moon.

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