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By Caits Meissner
I am 13 hours in the future & it is night / the rain is holding her breath
my friend, isn’t Penang opening to us! / a lotus unveiling a carnival
the paper lanterns are skirts / or balls pushed along by tiger’s nose
our smoke is a canon / dare devil on its way to an unnamed star
By Geffrey Davis
During the last 50 miles back from haul & some
months past my 15th birthday, my father fishes
a stuffed polar bear from a Salvation Army
gift-bin, labeled Boys: 6-10. I can almost see him
By Alison Roh Park
My daddy's hands were scarred
and through the smallest details escaped
years ago I remember them a strong
brown like here is the axe that missed
By Susanna Lang
She had planned to offer peaches with the tea.
August was warm; the fruit had ripened to perfection.
She’d placed two paring knives on the cutting board,
set out the teapot with nasturtiums painted on the side.
By Kim Roberts
Kim Roberts performs the poem "The International Fruit of Welcome" at the 2012 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
By Tim Seibles
Tim Seibles performs "One Turn Around the Sun" at the 2014 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
By Kim Roberts
Oysters may look to us
like wet floppy tongues,
but there’s no licking.
There’s no touching.
By Lourdes Galván
Utica is a pretty and quiet country
When I was at the bus station
my son would say to me, 'mom, I am hungry'
and a man who was sweeping came up to me
By Sam Taylor
And someone in a field found an old car
from the year black with beetles, eaten like lace,
and the sky fell into it, a private thing.
And everyone had a kitchen or a fold-out bed
By Chen Chen
My friend’s new neighbors in the suburbs
are planting a neat row of roses
between her house & theirs.