Cerberus
By Beth CopelandWhat do the howling hounds hear that we can't?
The moon sharpens its sword on the Earth's stone.
Palm trees on the shores of the Tigris stand sentinel,
Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Beth CopelandWhat do the howling hounds hear that we can't?
The moon sharpens its sword on the Earth's stone.
Palm trees on the shores of the Tigris stand sentinel,
By Zein El-AmineSit in their circle.
Don't let your eyes linger
on any object in the room.
By Joseph RossIn a summer of snipers
some men raised their hands
with fingers pressed
By Ching-In ChenThe teacher straightbacked,
faced me off, her eyes.
My face in the cleave of
her shoulder, my bones
By Heather DavisThe lights in your home channel 29 men, their
soot stained clothes, last breaths, crystalline sweat
let loose on black rock
By Lori DesrosiersI was the wrong kind of bride,
more sweat than glisten,
more peach than pomegranate.
By Joseph RossIf you leave your shoes
on the front porch
when you run
By Francisco AragónDespite the absent head (whose eyes
were the green of apples)