‘N’em

By Jericho Brown They said to say goodnight
And not goodbye, unplugged
The TV when it rained. They hid

Manistee Lights

By Samiya Bashir Brother I don't either understand this
skipscrapple world that is--these
slick bubble cars zip feverish down

By Rachel M. Simon the name altered from parent's choosing
the threshold of a home
white gloves on the windowsill

By Purvi Shah The mehndi is leaving my hands,
brown swirls dissolving into brown skin.
Somewhere you are traveling

By Kathleen Hellen I sit in the front row of
bleachers -- cheap seats for greater grief.
My son

By Rashida James-Saadiya we scatter
dodge words that rip into flesh
hide from clenched fist

By Patricia Monaghan After the nightly news and four martinis
he quietly begins to draw the inner workings
of the bomb, knowing the explosion needed

By Alison Roh Park If it were not so scarred from your accidental
rages—uptown, upstate—I would have rested
on the cinder block of your chest.

By Jericho Brown Not the palm, not the pear tree
Switch, not the broomstick,
Nor the closet extension
Cord, not his braided belt, but God

By Melisa Cahnmann-Taylor Bionic Feeding Woman
whips breasts out, sprays
privacy netting over him