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Dorsía Smith Silva

Puerto Rico as Non-Erasure

By Dorsía Smith Silva Survival occupies us with our blank shopping carts
next to blank shelves. We grow desperate because spaces
are blank. A hurricane that leaves a bitter taste
as stores carry bare wrappers and blank sympathy.
Quenton Baker

I AM IN THE WEATHER

By Quenton Baker every cloud that rolls off the ocean
pours my dead on me

the mad
the sick
the brave
the faceted
who chose the wave over their making
Ryan Jafar Artes

Not Equal to Family (Reduced Down to Me)

By Ryan Jafar Artes If
Mother + Father = Me

But
Mother + Father + Me ≠ Family

Then
Mother + Father - Me = Family
Jalynn Harris

Druid Hill Park, Baltimore MD

By Jalynn Harris At the entrance, six copper pillars stand tall as a wave
as once did six-fingered Lucille. She lived here, too–

The light alone enough to fill the lake. I walk the park
because I’m weak. All flesh and fur needing

to get out my bark. My rough squeeze of please please
A red bird. Another mile. My feet eat the concrete.
Samia Saliba

historicity

By Samia Saliba golden shovel after karl marx, walter benjamin, richard siken, & zaina alsous

“the tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living”
- karl marx

in american cemeteries the dead overlap, the
hillside ostentatious in the catholic tradition.
Malcolm Friend

Diasporican Rechristening

By Malcolm Friend We work.
We are sometimes on time.
We are sometimes late.
We are sometimes
coming up with the excuses
for why we can’t make it
even as we know we have to.
Some of us are trying to be American
and some of us are trying to be boricua
and some of us are trying.
Cass Garison

On Reverence

By Cass Garison I adore the carnations & I adore
the trains, specifically the boxcars
with endings & beginnings I can’t

keep track of, who drag their stretched
torsos like absolute creatures around
what seems like earth’s clearest curve.
Ana Portnoy Brimmer

Sargassum / Sargazo

By Ana Portnoy Brimmer There’s so much to be learned from that which floats A patience
from the Gulf of Mexico to a sea of its name sargassum
drifts hand in hand with itself
José Angel Araguz

Every S In This Poem is Telling On Me

By José Angel Araguz I knew nothing about poems
when I was introduced to
the woman selling seashells by
the seashore. Placed in a
remedial speech class, told
my S’s served no one,
I felt set aside in
the silence of clear hallways

where I walked slow, savoring
not being where I belonged.
Mia S. Willis

for imam khaliifah ibn rayford daniels.

By Mia S. Willis when the state murdered a poet
none of us slept none of us deserved to
the way we stood by with pens and phones and helpless guilt
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