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By Ellen Hagan
the ones who brought your father here, come. Bring
with them whole almonds, dried berries & clementines
wrapped in cloth. Their clothes & smart shoes too.
By Purvi Shah
The mehndi is leaving my hands,
brown swirls dissolving into brown skin.
Somewhere you are traveling
By Meg Eden
I look for a man's hand inside
the folds of my purse, and find
a pattern that recalls a finger print, the way
By Camille T. Dungy
The poet's hands degenerate until her cup is too heavy.
You are not required to understand.
This is not the year for understanding.
By Marilyn Nelson
Somebody took a picture of a class
standing in line to get polio shots,
and published it in the Weekly Reader.
By Antoinette Brim
Let the moon untangle itself
from the clothesline, as coming daylight
diminishes its lamp to memory.
By Kathleen O'Toole
He arrived first as a student of geology
in the bicentennial year.
By Judith Arcana
You read the tiny cardboard book before
you scratch the strip under Augie's New Pizza
on the back of MIA:We still don't know
By Penelope Scambly Schott
Back when I used to march
in the noon of the green world,
I sang like a crow.
By Deema K. Shehabi
I could tell you that listening is made for the ashen sky,
and instead of the muezzin's voice, which lingers
like weeping at dawn,