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By Purvi Shah
The mehndi is leaving my hands,
brown swirls dissolving into brown skin.
Somewhere you are traveling
By Tarfia Faizullah
In Grandmother's house,
we are each a room that
must remain locked. Inside
By Marilyn Nelson
Somebody took a picture of a class
standing in line to get polio shots,
and published it in the Weekly Reader.
By Rachel McKibbens
The Mad Girls climb the wet hill,
breathe the sharp air through sick-green lungs.
The Wildest One wanders off like an old cow
By Venus Thrash
I am wearing a white tux with tails,
or a baby blue one with a ruffly shirt,
or decked out in classic black, or coolly
By Kathy Engel
write about the killing of Troy Davis or
the years he claimed innocence so many times
the words fell from his mouth like drops of honey.
By Antoinette Brim
Let the moon untangle itself
from the clothesline, as coming daylight
diminishes its lamp to memory.
By Kathleen O'Toole
He arrived first as a student of geology
in the bicentennial year.
By Deema K. Shehabi
I could tell you that listening is made for the ashen sky,
and instead of the muezzin's voice, which lingers
like weeping at dawn,
By Don Share
Greetings to the red-eyed clouds
from this, the house that sits
on the mound and faces the corner