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By Indran Amirthanayagam
I have not had a drink in ten
days, I declared to my close
friends, spilling the news
as well to a fellow passenger
on the bus, and earlier to birds
I greeted as I sauntered off into
the day with a constitutional
by the graves.
By River 瑩瑩 Dandelion
i was in labor for three days
in a hospital bed in Brooklyn
the lighting was harsh for your eyes
[my mother mimics her body
stick bug straight
arms plastered to side]
By Vickie Vértiz
The men inside the Pep Boys wear blue work shirts. Fingerprints on the hems. That’s
how I’m going to be: my hands with grease that won’t wash off. Like Apá buying Freon.
Fenders. My sister sniffs the little trees, outlines the posing girls with her eyes. We buy
peanuts and their candy turns our palms to red
By Candice Iloh
the parents got a phone call from the school
the school told the parents the behavior was
inappropriate something that won’t be tolerated unacceptable
By Hayan Charara
The Arab apocalypse began around the year
of my birth, give or take—
the human apocalypse,
a few thousand years earlier.
By Arianna Monet
I say Well, it is a compound word, so..
Code. Noun.
A system of marking things with different colors
as a means of identification.
By Allison Adelle Hedge Coke
Your arm was twisted, bone exposed
face past point of wet stained,
fledgling fell there
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 Maricielo Ampudia Gutiérrez
With each finger, I pressed on black ink, and one by one placed them on the transmitting screen. Following instruction, I rolled each finger, left to right, and slow—every quarter inch of skin recorded. On the display, perfect fingerprints glowing.
By Safia Elhillo
i sat by the lake & ate five tiny oranges & every strand
of flesh & pith was my teacher
i grew warm & soft in the sun & from this ripening
made a poem to search for my teacher