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By Aideed Medina
De piedra, sangre.
I make my own heaven. I drag it out of the streets, and inhospitable terrains. I mixed "tabique", brick, mortar with my hands, kneading,
I need, to make my own heaven
By Jessica (Tyner) Mehta
Conductor drives us, the cow-
catcher barreling straight into the teeth
of Memory’s harshest winter.
By Kateema Lee
She grew up hearing about girls
who never made it to womanhood, girls
whose names wore away with each decade
By Lip Manegio
the trees were dying again. i had been spending
more time on the porch than usual, letting
the early november freeze get the better
By Emily K. Michael
The speed reading class for seventh graders
slumped over tight columns of text spread flat
on tables in the library where in her half-glasses
By Juan J. Morales
Like two hands pressed
together, they are twice as large
on the island. One feeds
By Hari Alluri
Unless you’re practiced as a lola’s wrinkles,
do not flip the lit side of the yosi in your mouth.
They developed this skill in war and carried it
By Janlori Goldman
His face stared out into the living room
of my grandparents’ walk-up on E. 13th.
After they died my father hung him
By Deborah A. Miranda
The people you cannot treat as people
Whose backs bent over your fields, your kitchens, your cattle, your children
We whose hands harvested the food we planted and cultivated for your mouth, your belly.
By Jennifer Foerster
The war appeared to be coming to an end.
The no-name people not yet taken
left their crops for summer’s drought.