Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Tala KhanmalekOn a table in the corner of Lollipop Shoppe, I face the crowd and dance. I look toward a circle of new friends by the bar. Most of us just met six days ago yet we share, I think, the sole familiar between strangers: brutality. I listen with my hands. Arms overhead, conjuring.
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By Arianna Monetand I keep mistaking the screen for a
mirror. By which I mean, I too was once
adolescent and unconquerable:
purple hair; a body unmarked by pain.
Then, the bright unholiness of onset.
By Zuggie TateWhen the sun greets well-slept eyelids
when the nail doesn’t break
when the voice doesn’t crack,
when the bus grandmother says hello sweetness
when she pulls a honeycomb smile from this hive of a mouth
when the door is held
when her favorite flowers bloom
By Ezra FoxThey say I killed you,
say they can pry o pen
my / your
dead / name
like a mussel finds nothing
but the ocean's black silt.
By JoAnn BalingitThere’s no usurping her pain
now the baby’s head is crowning
mom mom mom mom mom
no panting I say
take deep breaths through your nose
By Ajanaé Dawkinswhat is it ‘bout the river that makes even spirits sing? we hear a laugh & don’t know if its ours or our momma’s; our sister’s or otherworld kin. what current of possibilities. we could splash, laugh, water-dance. hell, we could baptize somebody. wash the wet of us they said would stay dirty our whole lives.
By Adrian Gaston GarciaHe says that he’s too embarrassed to ask me for this favor
But in his Spanish it sounds sweeter, more innocent, almost childlike
He sets up his station at the dining room table:
A paper towel and two different set of nail clippers
He folds the paper towel in half
before placing his withered and wrinkled hands on top
He lets me hold them
I cannot remember the last time we held hands
By Jzl JmzI CROSS MY LEGS - I BRUSH
MY CLAVICLE / I PITCH MY
LAUGH - I LAUGH - I LOOK
AWAY / I SMILE
By Cass GarisonI adore the carnations & I adore
the trains, specifically the boxcars
with endings & beginnings I can’t
keep track of, who drag their stretched
torsos like absolute creatures around
what seems like earth’s clearest curve.
By Jalynn HarrisAt the entrance, six copper pillars stand tall as a wave
as once did six-fingered Lucille. She lived here, too–
The light alone enough to fill the lake. I walk the park
because I’m weak. All flesh and fur needing
to get out my bark. My rough squeeze of please please
A red bird. Another mile. My feet eat the concrete.