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By Amaranth Borsuk
Few things the hand wished language could
do, given up on dialect's downward spiral:
words so readily betray things they're meant
By Jamaal May
Hold a pomegranate in your palm,
imagine ways to split it, think of the breaking
skin as shrapnel. Remember granada
By Adam Wiedewitsch
in blue earth, among willows, aisles
of box-elder, elms, in the silence between
on the sand-bar in front
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 Jonathan B. Tucker
pardon our appearance
as we grow to better serve you
says the sign on the fence
By Zein El-Amine
Sit in their circle.
Don't let your eyes linger
on any object in the room.
By Purvi Shah
The mehndi is leaving my hands,
brown swirls dissolving into brown skin.
Somewhere you are traveling
By Kevin Simmonds
at least one subject
and one verb
By Camille T. Dungy
The poet's hands degenerate until her cup is too heavy.
You are not required to understand.
This is not the year for understanding.
By Kathy Engel
write about the killing of Troy Davis or
the years he claimed innocence so many times
the words fell from his mouth like drops of honey.