Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Bettina JuddLucy didn’t scream like most. Though sometimes she
would moan--deep, long and overdue. I’d wake
thinking death. It’s her, knees curled under, head face
down, her body trying to move out of itself. Anarcha
By Julie EnszerThe painters call before we move into the new house. Ma’am, they say—
I am not old enough to be a ma’am, but I don’t correct them—
Ma’am, they say, we smell gas.
I dismiss their concern. I say, Keep painting.
By Joshua BennettWhen yet another one of your kin falls,
you question God’s wingspan, the architecture
of mercy.
By Joshua WeinerToday is Sunday.
Today, for the first time, they let me go out into the sun.
And I stood there I didn't move,
struck for the first time, the very first time ever:
By Kelli Stevens Kaneblueberry blackberry as always
bleeding, back road or boulevard,
our boy crowned with baton,
By Karen SkolfieldBalloon, then papier mâché.
Gray paint, blue and turquoise, green,
a clouded world with fishing line attached
By Allison Adelle Hedge CokeIn a room facing chimneys
over the place Nancy Morejón rests
between sleeps lining free lines
she whispers to hearing DC:
By Joseph O. LegaspiAmphibians live in both.
Immigrants leave their land,
hardening in the sea.
Out of water.
