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By Chen Chen
My friend’s new neighbors in the suburbs
are planting a neat row of roses
between her house & theirs.
By Ross Gay
Tumbling through the
city in my
mind without once
By Juan Carlos Galeano
In the north we hunted many buffalo
whose lard warmed us all winter.
But in the jungle they told us that to bring more light
By Gretchen Primack
and there was a dog, precisely the colors of autumn,
asleep between two trunks by the trail.
But it was a coyote, paws pink
By Joy Harjo
This city is made of stone, of blood, and fish.
There are Chugatch Mountains to the east
and whale and seal to the west.
By Natalie Diaz
In the Kashmir mountains,
my brother shot many men,
blew skulls from brown skins,
By Jamaal May
Hold a pomegranate in your palm,
imagine ways to split it, think of the breaking
skin as shrapnel. Remember granada
By Jose Padua
All the out of business auto body shops
on this slow highway, all the abandoned
buildings with peeling paint, the vacant
By Jaime Lee Jarvis
Was it the rush of words in that language
we understood only when we cocked our heads,
speaking on the slant, slurring our way
By Heather Davis
The lights in your home channel 29 men, their
soot stained clothes, last breaths, crystalline sweat
let loose on black rock