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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.
By Sara Brickman
Owosso, Michigan is cinder blocks
stacked on top of potato cellars and steamrolled
grey. There’s a lot of corn,
By Jacob Rakovan
The bones cast in the field like seed corn grow nothing,
grow briars in the boarded gas stations
brown stalks ready for the fire.
By Jericho Brown
They said to say goodnight
And not goodbye, unplugged
The TV when it rained. They hid
By Patricia Monaghan
Just past dawn in early fall,
a sparrow screamed at me
as I walked into the woods.
By Antoinette Brim
Let the moon untangle itself
from the clothesline, as coming daylight
diminishes its lamp to memory.
By Patricia Spears Jones
And I am full of worry I wrote to a friend
Worry, she replied about what—love, money, health?
All of them, I wrote back. It’s autumn, the air is clear
By Heather Davis
The lights in your home channel 29 men, their
soot stained clothes, last breaths, crystalline sweat
let loose on black rock
By Gregory Pardlo
Unfinished, the road turns off the fill
from the gulf coast, tracing the bay, to follow
the inland waterway.