Looking for The Gulf Motel

By Richard Blanco The Gulf Motel with mermaid lampposts
and ship's wheel in the lobby should still be
rising out of the sand like a cake decoration.

Here Were Buried

By Adam Wiedewitsch in blue earth, among willows, aisles
of box-elder, elms, in the silence between
on the sand-bar in front

By Patricia Monaghan Just past dawn in early fall,
a sparrow screamed at me
as I walked into the woods.

By Gowri Koneswaran we're taught to hold hands
when we cross the street
or walk with our mothers in parking lots or

By Brian Fanelli Every Sunday, I came dressed in punk rocker black,
checkered pants, steel-toed Docs.
No tie dye on me when I joined

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

By Pages Matam Ma Mere n'a Jamais eu des ailes
My momma never had wings
But she could tap dance on hurricanes

By Margaret Rozga Let there be drums and harps,
piccolos and flutes, violins,
banjos and guitars.

By Heather Holliger She and I, our silences,
hesitations--at the grocery store,
in the taxi, on the street.

By Daniela Elza I drink a blood sunset down Cardinal Avenue.
my shoes soaked poppies my mind quiet as
a book with a bomb in its mouth.