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Kimberly Blaeser

The Where in My Belly

By Kimberly Blaeser Scientists say my brain and heart
are 73 percent water—
they underestimate me.
Tamiko Beyer

Equinox

By Tamiko Beyer Dear child of the near future,
here is what I know—hawks

soar on the updraft and sparrows always
return to the seed source until they spot
Lisbeth White

Hull

By Lisbeth White At the end of the field are tracks
train metal iron sound called whistle
to me a blare that splits air before it
Naomi Ortiz

Tonight: Rebellious Resistance

By Naomi Ortiz base booms opposite my scooter
rattles
I am obstruction
Nathan Spoon

The Republic of Tenderness

By Nathan Spoon You are living inside the cup of another life. Water
is running slowly. Somewhere a hand is overflowing
with the abundance and celebration denizens dream of.
Peggy Robles-Alvarado

Pantoum For The Gyn That Asks If I Really Want More Children

By Peggy Robles-Alvarado She insists three kids are more than enough
Puerto Rican Tías are missing wombs
Tells me I’m still young, more than “just a mom”
George Abraham

Ode to Mennel Ibtissam singing “Hallelujah” on The Voice (France), translated in Arabic

By George Abraham maybe if , ash & smolder way the – tongue own my in never but song this heard i've
– it birthed who fire the not & gospel become can , mouth right the in seen
Rosemary Ferreira

This is the city that I love

By Rosemary Ferreira Habichuelas bubbling on the stovetop. The kitchen door opens to our backyard. My father cuts out a piece of the campo and plants it here in Brooklyn. There are neighbors who knock on the door with a broom to let us know they’re selling pasteles. The train rumbles into a screech in the background, “This is Gates Avenue, the next stop is...”
Leticia Hernández-Linares

Latido

By Leticia Hernández-Linares Tus pómulos, the historic shape of your
temporal bones imitating the pirámides we carry, beating
blueprints inside of our lungs, stencil the heart
with the angles of the architecture we were born in.
Janice Lobo Sapigao

Bill Pay

By Janice Lobo Sapigao we don’t know how to pay the bills on time
and we don’t know the password to your bank account

& in all of our languages I understand why you stacked
linens and face towels and rubber bands and plastic bags

in drawers and hallway closets
everything filled to the brim
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