On the Subway for the First Time
By Liv MammoneThe train is a creature that moves like water.
It has no eyes, only a sharp
mouth that closes on those too slow.
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PONDEROSA PINE
By Liza SparksWhen a ponderosa pine
is over one hundred—
it sheds a layer of bark.
THE MAGIC YOUR BODY BECOMES
By Michal 'MJ' JonesYou are [found] in
cherry blossom trees / heron bird flight /rib-
bon of night / space between stairs / rose
the day i died, my therapist asked how my week was going & i told him i am reading stone butch blues
By Lip Manegiothe trees were dying again. i had been spending
more time on the porch than usual, letting
the early november freeze get the better
Of Avocados
By Juan J. MoralesLike two hands pressed
together, they are twice as large
on the island. One feeds
We
By Deborah A. MirandaThe 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.
The Where in My Belly
By Kimberly BlaeserScientists say my brain and heart
are 73 percent water—
they underestimate me.
Equinox
By Tamiko BeyerDear child of the near future,
here is what I know—hawks
soar on the updraft and sparrows always
return to the seed source until they spot