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Cynthia Guardado

Waiting for a Greyhound Bus at the Los Angeles Station

By Cynthia Guardado A black woman stands with two toddlers hanging off her hips.
Her balance is perfect as she pushes her luggage with one leg,

the boys curl into her shoulders unaware of how
they all slide forward. I offer her my help. Her face is serious
beyza ozer

When I Kiss You, A Casket Opens

By beyza ozer this is not terrorism

this is toxic masculinity

made in the USA

when my mother hears

about orlando

she doesn't look at me
Karenne Wood

The Poet I Wish I Was

By Karenne Wood 1. A white poet whose work I admire said she feels most inspired on her daily four-mile walk through a forest.

2. I wish I had time to walk four miles daily. I can usually manage one mile with dogs. My dogs are distractible, and they distract me.
Joseph Green

Talk Ugly

By Joseph Green The last time I saw you alive
I wish I would’ve talked ugly to you.

Said, “Put the straw down. No,
I don’t want to take another line,
I should be writing them.
Cameron Awkward-Rich

The Child Formerly Known As _________

By Cameron Awkward-Rich is what your father calls you now. Yes, you know
your father loves you
but each time he will not name you

you feel a hole
Tonee Mae Moll

January 20, 2017

By Tonee Mae Moll We’re looking for that old revolutionary road again
a poet said we’d meet where the grass grows uphill.
I couldn’t think of a better way to describe America
torch in one hand, scrolling through her smart phone with the other
Deborah A. Miranda

Almost Midnight

By Deborah A. Miranda Wife and dogs have gone to bed.
I sit here with the front door open.

Crickets sing patiently, a long lullaby
in lazy harmony. Rain falls

Tanya Paperny

Prababushka

By Tanya Paperny click on a live stream
of a memorial event
to commemorate victims
of Soviet terror
Mai Der Vang

Final Dispatch from Laos

By Mai Der Vang Concerning our hollow breasts,
Lice factions multiplying in our hair.

Concerning our unused stomachs,
Molars waiting to chew, taste buds
Kim Marshall

Spring

By Kim Marshall We rush toward change, ask:
how much
do you love me?
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