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Subhaga Crystal Bacon

Anthropocene Pastoral

By Subhaga Crystal Bacon This is the anti-garden. It tends itself.
Its shine of blooms a blanket of sun.

It has its own water in hidden springs
bathing aspen, burdock and sage.
féi hernandez

Eohippus

By féi hernandez Simultaneously I am
alone and crowded, this…
the pulsing wound of being extinct,

whole
enough for a morning forage,
yet scant for the onlookers

of lineage,
of nation,
myths in the mulberry tree.
Hazem Fahmy

The Committed

By Hazem Fahmy When I say “a Free Palestine in our lifetime” I mean it
is your moral duty to believe the last shekel has already been printed,
its destiny a glass frame in a museum next to a dollar,
Paul Hlava Ceballos

To the Moreno Valley Cop who Pointed a Gun at Me

By Paul Hlava Ceballos Say it to me again, I dare you,
any small word, slipped through a sidearm’s
sight—I am not a child anymore.
Aliah Lavonne Tigh

Body Under Another’s Tradition

By Aliah Lavonne Tigh Everyone in Anatomy pairs up,
receives a small baby pig.
The scalpel shines like water or a mirror—if you look, you see
yourself: gloved hand pushing a blade to open
the other animal’s chest. Someone drops
a knife, shouts,
Clean it up. This is how we learn to
dissect a body.
Cynthia Manick

Dear Prairie: A Brown Girl Letter

By Cynthia Manick How does it feel to be something man hasn’t touched? Nothing
feeds your shape – how tall you want to aim, the texture from
root to tip, or the colors you choose to shake off like makeup.
It must be nice to have no load bearing walls – nothing to hold
you down or box in all you want to be.
Sham-e-Ali Nayeem

Raath Ki Rani

By Sham-e-Ali Nayeem The other night I sensed her
fragrance makes presence
known before witness.

Heard faint flowers
unseen anklets worn by
ghosts of Hyderabadi streets.
Jaden Fields

Just Is - Where There Are Black People in the Future

By Jaden Fields It is the steadiest “I love you”
Until the moon loses their footing in the sky
Which is to say - never
Or
I love you beyond time
Or
I love me beyond time
Mandy Shunnarah

ode to the hare

By Mandy Shunnarah We might have told them, if they’d asked,
the poppies wouldn’t make it to their melancholy
island, no matter how swift their sails snapped
across the sea. Then again, we love our land more
than they love theirs; we long to return, not flee.
That’s why you don’t see us boarding clippers
to claim to ground not ours. With our bountiful
fertile crescent, who needs more plenty?
Kat Abdallah

Performativity

By Kat Abdallah My teachers ask me
after seven months of genocide
if I’m holding up alright.
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