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By Liza Sparks
When a ponderosa pine
is over one hundred—
it sheds a layer of bark.
By Erin Hoover
My child babies a squeeze bottle of craft glue
or a lipstick tube filched from my purse.
She yanks a tissue from our coffee table
By Zefyr Lisowski
Was not a monster— (His hands were soft)
Was not an abnormality— Was not just
“being a boy”— Had no reputation—
By Leigh Sugar
I knew it was something bodies could do, disobey –
a girl a grade above had died that fall
of the cancer I was being tested for in winter,
By Aideed Medina
De piedra, sangre.
I make my own heaven. I drag it out of the streets, and inhospitable terrains. I mixed "tabique", brick, mortar with my hands, kneading,
I need, to make my own heaven
By Jessica (Tyner) Mehta
Conductor drives us, the cow-
catcher barreling straight into the teeth
of Memory’s harshest winter.
By Emily K. Michael
The speed reading class for seventh graders
slumped over tight columns of text spread flat
on tables in the library where in her half-glasses
By Janlori Goldman
His face stared out into the living room
of my grandparents’ walk-up on E. 13th.
After they died my father hung him
By Deborah A. Miranda
The people you cannot treat as people
Whose backs bent over your fields, your kitchens, your cattle, your children
We whose hands harvested the food we planted and cultivated for your mouth, your belly.
By Jennifer Foerster
The war appeared to be coming to an end.
The no-name people not yet taken
left their crops for summer’s drought.