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Destiny Hemphill

we ask mama-n-em, “where is the motherworld?”

By Destiny Hemphill listen.

it’s in, not at. in the whistle & hiss, the steam of your breath as you chant
we ready (we ready), we comin (we comin) atop of a jail

building in ruins. yes, it’s in your breath & in the never dwindling
kindle of your fingertips as you reach out & touch
Kimberly Blaeser

Poem on Disappearance

By Kimberly Blaeser Beginning with our continent, draw 1491:
each mountain, compass point Indigenous;
trace trade routes, languages, seasonal migrations—
don’t become attached.
leilani portillo

believe me

By leilani portillo when i say
the land is my
ancestor
believe me.
Kimberly Blaeser

A Water Poem for Remembering

By Kimberly Blaeser Yes, it’s true I speak ill of the living
in coded ways divorced from the dead.
Why Lyla June fasts on capitol steps.
Cameron Awkward-Rich

Meditations in an Emergency

By Cameron Awkward-Rich I wake up & it breaks my heart. I draw the blinds
& the thrill of rain breaks my heart. I go outside.
I ride the train, walk among the buildings, men in
Monday suits.
Ching-In Chen

Lantern Letter: a Zuihitsu

By Ching-In Chen My people – I see you across street, porch people, huddled under brick archway, watching what pours from sky. Wading in water, what circuits it carries – mostly numb, small, what might feel like circuit’s end.
Laura Da’

Chains and Links

By Laura Da' I do desire—Chillicothe, Piqua, Lima
that you remain—Shawnee, Lawrence, Olathe

Wyandotte, Tecumseh—on the other side
Junction City, Fort Leavenworth, Lenexa—

of the river.
George Abraham

the ghosts of the dead sea rewrite the history of drowning

By George Abraham sink [ the bodies ] sink [ unholy ] sink [ in their own ] sink sink [ home ] sink [ the bodies ] sink [ i lift ] sink [ zion's expense ] sink [ in skin ] sink [ & bone ] sink sink [ coarse & crystalline ] sink sink [ & wound ] sink sink [ i swallow ]
Meg Day

Origin Calling

By Meg Day In the dangerous years
everyone took lovers

but us.
Sheila Black

Radium Dream

By Sheila Black We come at the wrong time of year by a hair
or a week, and the brown birds flying onward,
out of reach. My son tilts his head.
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