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Ellen Bass Today is gray, drizzling,
but not enough for drops to pool
on the tips of the silver needles
or soak the bark of the pines at Ponary—
Kim Roberts Hundreds of tiny fry
crowd the single tank,
churning the water milky.
The fry grow to parr
Nesha Ruther L’chaim to my rabbi who gets red in the face during prayer
and sings off-tune
we can always hear him.
Julie Enszer to the place where the idea
of being a pinko commie dyke
first entered her mind,
Sarah Sansolo You wear the faded muslin—
did it begin yours or mine?
Everything we have is both.
Everything we are is both,
Jen Hofer what dateless body what we exacted or nixed or hexed in the eternal present of not being able to – what not being able to not be considered garbage or trashed by the bag
Allison Pitinii Davis Before him, stickers fade across the bumper:
LAST ONE OUT OF TOWN, TURN OFF THE LIGHTS.
The last employer in Youngstown is the weather:
the truck behind him plows grey snow to the roadside
Abby Minor 1. [July 2013 Millheim, Pennsylvania]
This is how you miscarry on purpose, with pills:
this is how you eat a sack of tattered peonies.
With stippled petals in your mouth, this is how
you set the little sunset-
Kim Roberts Kim Roberts performs the poem "The International Fruit of Welcome" at the 2012 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
Kim Roberts Oysters may look to us
like wet floppy tongues,
but there’s no licking.
There’s no touching.