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By Gbenga Adesina
North of the country, a road led to the desert.
Dust was the first sentence. The Sahara
was a white darkness in the distance,
and beyond it the glint of a Great Lake.
We drove past fields of ginger and wild purple onions.
There was a public garden and a ring of white egrets
around still water.
By Dare Williams
At the Best Western, he arrived in a Ford
with its burned-out back. We spent the day
driving while he pointed at ruins
of cars gutted on the dead lawns.
By Ariana Benson
a week before I left the sinking city, I read
about a fruit fly with decoy ants on its wings—
an evolutionary adaptation, bred
evidence of what happens when a species clings
so desperately to life that it makes for itself
By emet ezell
i bought her a shitty ass chicken sandwich.
$18.59 and dripping with oil—
my grandmother. she blessed
the meal for ten minutes before
taking a bite. poured out devotion like
gasoline. like pepsi cola. we knew then
that she was dying, but i lived
in the first paragraph, unprepared.
By mónica teresa ortiz
I wake up sleepless inside a room overlooking giants//mist peeling over olive trees//clouds of pleasure
By Kimberly Blaeser
Scientists say my brain and heart
are 73 percent water—
they underestimate me.
By Lisbeth White
At the end of the field are tracks
train metal iron sound called whistle
to me a blare that splits air before it
By Carlos Andrés Gómez
whisper through tear gas—
remind of the original
patrols, ruddy-cheeked
By Hakim Bellamy
No one woke up, that Saturday, mourning. / No one woke up that Saturday morning with intentions of becoming a back to school vigil. / No one woke up not expecting to finish out a sophomore year...that had barely be- // gun.
By Sheila Black
We come at the wrong time of year by a hair
or a week, and the brown birds flying onward,
out of reach. My son tilts his head.