THE NINE
By Tara HardyThey call it dissociation.
I call it THE NINE (children)
who live inside me.
Each of them encased
in amber, frozen in a mosquito-pose
Search Results
On Calling the Cops.
By Rasheed CopelandIt took us this long to slow our dying
down to a languid and sensible pace
wherein the sugar might claim each our limbs
Talk Ugly
By Joseph GreenThe last time I saw you alive
I wish I would’ve talked ugly to you.
Said, “Put the straw down. No,
I don’t want to take another line,
I should be writing them.
January 20, 2017
By Tonee Mae MollWe’re looking for that old revolutionary road again
a poet said we’d meet where the grass grows uphill.
I couldn’t think of a better way to describe America
torch in one hand, scrolling through her smart phone with the other
Final Dispatch from Laos
By Mai Der VangConcerning our hollow breasts,
Lice factions multiplying in our hair.
Concerning our unused stomachs,
Molars waiting to chew, taste buds
from Dissolve
By Sherwin BitsuiFather's dying ceased
when he refunded this ours
for fused hands plaster-coated
Commodity
By Jeanann VerleeIn a humble, godless house
you moved through youth like any girl.
Dolls & other toys, yours,
in parts.
We are not reconciled to the oppressors who whet their howl on our grief.
By Danielle BadraWe 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
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Spaghetti Western
By John JamesIn Georgetown, IN, the steel projector reels.
The desert stretches blankly before us, a red
plain constellated with rows of dry mesquite.
Gouge
By Heather Derr-SmithOne man said there are hundreds
of delicate articulated bones
in the human head. So don’t let it
get punched. Easier said than done.