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Jessica Jacobs Arkansas is aspic with last-gasp summer, making running
like tunneling: the trail’s air a gelatin
of trapped trajectories.
sam sax sometimes i wonder what happens to people’s hands when they disappear
in their pockets. of course, my rational brain knows they go on being hands
but there’s still the question. i wonder if object permanence isn’t the biggest
trick of them all, a scam, a way to ground the brain in its thin bath of liquid
Doritt Carroll the first time it happened
i thought i was being strangled
four fingers compressing each side of my throat
Kim Marshall We rush toward change, ask:
do you love me?
Ellen Bass Today is gray, drizzling,
but not enough for drops to pool
on the tips of the silver needles
or soak the bark of the pines at Ponary—
Zahara Heckscher This is a love song
to the invisible waves
that travel through the air
finding the antenna
Kim Roberts Hundreds of tiny fry
crowd the single tank,
churning the water milky.
The fry grow to parr
Nesha Ruther L’chaim to my rabbi who gets red in the face during prayer
and sings off-tune
we can always hear him.
Lauren Camp The soup cooks for an hour while vultures and buzzards pluck the market.
My father wipes his forehead with a white cloth.
Once, each day began with khubz and samoon
Julie Enszer to the place where the idea
of being a pinko commie dyke
first entered her mind,