Belly Song
By Kathleen HellenI sit in the front row of
bleachers -- cheap seats for greater grief.
My son
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Rain Dance
By Rashida James-Saadiyawe scatter
dodge words that rip into flesh
hide from clenched fist
Knowing the Bomb So Well
By Patricia MonaghanAfter the nightly news and four martinis
he quietly begins to draw the inner workings
of the bomb, knowing the explosion needed
Build You Up
By Alison Roh ParkIf it were not so scarred from your accidental
rages—uptown, upstate—I would have rested
on the cinder block of your chest.
Prayer of the Backhanded
By Jericho BrownNot the palm, not the pear tree
Switch, not the broomstick,
Nor the closet extension
Cord, not his braided belt, but God
After The UPS Man Shouted “Feed Your Baby At Home” Through His Truck Window
By Melisa Cahnmann-TaylorBionic Feeding Woman
whips breasts out, sprays
privacy netting over him
Manchild
By Cornelius EadyA warning one white friend hisses
To the one standing nearest to me
At an Upper West Side newsstand.