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Jamila Woods

Blk Girl Art

By Jamila Woods Poems are bullshit unless they are eyeglasses, honey
tea with lemon, hot water bottles on tummies. I want
poems my grandma wants to tell the ladies at church
about. I want orange potato words soaking in the pot
Elmaz Abinader

Where the Body Rests

By Elmaz Abinader Our skin has turned to parchment
Our skin has turned to parchment
Our skin are the scrolls upon which
This history will be written
Rosa Chávez

We, stones, were branded by hot iron

By Rosa Chávez Ri oj ab'aj xkoj qetal ruk'a k'atanalaj ch'ich'
Xk'at ri qab'aq'wach //
Las piedras fuimos marcadas con hierro candente
quemados nuestros ojos //
We, stones, were branded by hot iron
our eyes scorched
L. Lamar Wilson

A Patch of Blue in Tenleytown

By L. Lamar Wilson She ambles about this Mickey-Dee kitchen’s din,
unmoved by the hot grease threatening
her ¿puedo tomar su orden? mask.
Roger Reeves

Self-Portrait as Vincent Van Gogh in the Asylum at Arles

By Roger Reeves The moths in the orchard squeal
with each pass of the mistral wind.
Yet the reapers and their scythes,
out beyond the pear trees, slay wheat
Anna B. Sutton

For What I Am About to Do

By Anna B. Sutton This morning, there is an angel hanging by a thread,
cartoonish and carved out of soft wood. She twirls
circles above me, manipulated by the pulse
of a ceiling vent.
Beth Spencer

The World Where It Is

By Beth Spencer In the atrium of the principal church
in a certain Irish city
it is said a girl can find beneath a bench
among the tea roses the name of an abortionist.
Peter J. Harris

Don’t Even Pretend (The Saturn Poem)

By Peter J. Harris Saturn's rings was all nappy
spread out from her head
like she just woke up
took a shower & aint dried them yet
Ailish Hopper

Ways to Be White in a Poem

By Ailish Hopper Tension makes
a form resound

and so the many lines I am told
not to cross
Bettina Judd

THE INAUGURATION OF EXPERIMENTS, December 1845

By 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
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