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By Martín Espada
Martín Espada performs the poem "Alabanza" at the 2010 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
By Eduardo C. Corral
Eduardo C. Corral reads "In Colorado My Father Scoured and Stacked Dishes" at the 2014 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
By Aaron Kreuter
We put in at the edge of the tailings pond,
our canoe loaded with gear and food
to take us on the four-day loop trip,
our nylon tent and stainless steel pots.
By Kelli Stevens Kane
blueberry blackberry as always
bleeding, back road or boulevard,
our boy crowned with baton,
By Karen Skolfield
Balloon, then papier mâché.
Gray paint, blue and turquoise, green,
a clouded world with fishing line attached
By Lindsay Vaughn
Women who are not ready we have our own ways
we take pills lie in our lovers’ beds
curled like blades of grass we wait for the writhing wind
that aches and rocks our slender bodies they whisper
By Rayna Momen
Unprotected sex is a woman in America.
Unprotected sex is a woman in the world.
My body is my temple and will always be
it is not some place where you go to pray
By Elizabeth Hoover
Ñuul, the teacher says and smacks his knee to show
where the stress falls. Ñuul, the children repeat each
starting at a different time so they sing a sour chord.
By Persis M. Karim
Take their limbs strewn about the streets—
multiply by a thousand and one.
Ask everyone in Baghdad who has lost
By Jeffrey Thomson
I know this: a man walked home drunk
along the corduroy of pines
in west Texas, the bronze duff and
the dust and the late light that fell