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Camisha Jones This body is one long moan
My feet a landscape of mines
My legs two full pails of water I spill
at the weight of
My back where the sharpest knives are kept
My hands a scatter of matches ready to spark into flame
Marilyn Nelson Marilyn Nelson performs the poem "Millie Christine" at the 2012 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
L. Lamar Wilson She ambles about this Mickey-Dee kitchen’s din,
unmoved by the hot grease threatening
her ¿puedo tomar su orden? mask.
Bettina Judd Lucy 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
Leona Sevick Instead, I spotted our mother in a tiny
chair in the back row, her blue-black head
shining unnaturally. She was dressed in
David-Matthew Barnes I remember the rhythm at night:
Your hips wanting mine,
to grind our street-smart
Susan Scheid There we stood, dressed like Egyptians
or what we thought Egyptians should look like
from all our National Geographic magazines.
Truth Thomas Shayna reads the Word and takes
the story of that first miracle as
serious as unpaid electric bills in
Emily K. Bright It is nearly midnight and I'm
scrubbing at the grout.
The dishes, washed,
Margaret Rozga Let there be drums and harps,
piccolos and flutes, violins,
banjos and guitars.