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Jeneva Stone close to the Nevada border salt
flats dry beds octagonal or hexed
one constant the wind another
dryness the two wicked all away
Amanda Gorman There’s a poem in this place—
in the footfalls in the halls
in the quiet beat of the seats.
It is here, at the curtain of day,
Katy Richey There’s not a single thing in your closet
that should be worn after 1997.
You do look fat in those pants,
Jennifer Bartlett Jennifer Bartlett performs an excerpt from "The Hindrances of a Householder" at the 2016 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
Jennifer Bartlett to walk means to fall
to thrust forward
to fall and catch
the seemingly random
is its own system of gestures
Camisha Jones This body is one long moan
My feet a landscape of mines
My legs two full pails of water I spill
at the weight of
My back where the sharpest knives are kept
My hands a scatter of matches ready to spark into flame
Kathi Wolfe In an elevator trapped
between the fifteenth and sixteenth
floor of her apartment building,
Sunday morning, Elizabeth, her cane
Ellen McGrath Smith I wanted bad to advance to Washington, D. C.
I wanted to be anyone but me.
The nun who had trained me for the spelling bee
needed a ride, and I was so worried all the way across town
Marilyn Nelson Marilyn Nelson performs the poem "Millie Christine" at the 2012 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
Peter Cook and Kenny Lerner Need, desperate need, eagle-taloned need
is a pumping drill. The oil sloshes
to the brim. The lid slams and it’s a tanker
spewing smoke. It burps and hisses