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Arisa White

My Dead

By Arisa White Everybody she died another is dead everybody
dead and AIDS of AIDS my dead she is
there are more I know with the same story hiding
lips stitched hesitant to speak of someone you knew
Nickole Brown

What the Bees Taught Me

By Nickole Brown When I press my face to the painted box,
the sound is
not buzzing, is not
a mob of wings.
Jessica Jacobs

In a Thicket of Body-Bent Grass

By Jessica Jacobs Arkansas is aspic with last-gasp summer, making running
like tunneling: the trail’s air a gelatin
of trapped trajectories.
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
Danielle Badra

We are not reconciled to the oppressors who whet their howl on our grief.

By Danielle Badra We are not born to be barons of wealth. We
are soft spoken wordsmiths, not soldiers. We are
not broken by hardship or hate. We are not
Ellen Bass

Witnesses

By Ellen Bass Today is gray, drizzling,
but not enough for drops to pool
on the tips of the silver needles
or soak the bark of the pines at Ponary—
Joshua Jennifer Espinoza

This Is What Makes Us Worlds

By Joshua Jennifer Espinoza Like light but
in reverse we billow.
We turn a corner
and make the hills
JP Howard

etheree for black women

By JP Howard black women we be trying to hold worlds
on our backs, in our hearts without fail
some days we fail at perfection
Sylvia Beato

a good woman would never

By Sylvia Beato for years you told no one
how you cried yourself to sleep
after the doctor held your hand

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