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By Lisa L. Moore
Word got out about the bad bill.
College students packed up their bikinis,
went back to Austin to tell those men why
By Patricia Monaghan
They were always taught that all guns were loaded.
It was a way, he said, to keep them safe.
Don't you notice, he said, how people get shot
By Jericho Brown
They said to say goodnight
And not goodbye, unplugged
The TV when it rained. They hid
By Remica L. Bingham
The weight of my parents,
the dawn of them;
my grandmother's lackluster
By Emily K. Bright
It is nearly midnight and I'm
scrubbing at the grout.
The dishes, washed,
By Samiya Bashir
Brother I don't either understand this
skipscrapple world that is--these
slick bubble cars zip feverish down
By Richard Blanco
The Gulf Motel with mermaid lampposts
and ship's wheel in the lobby should still be
rising out of the sand like a cake decoration.
By Rachel M. Simon
the name altered from parent's choosing
the threshold of a home
white gloves on the windowsill
By Pages Matam
Ma Mere n'a Jamais eu des ailes
My momma never had wings
But she could tap dance on hurricanes
By Cathy Lihn Che
I see my mother at thirteen
in a village so small,
it's never given a name.