Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Demetrice Anntía WorleyOn this eve of the dead, I cry out loud,
“por favor Virgen de Guadalupe, don’t
forsake me,” before I open the door,
before I see la policía flat
By Lauren K. AlleyneTonight you are full of small rivers:
your eyes’ salty runoff, the rust-bright
trickle staining your thigh, the unnamable,
By Jill KhouryThe boy across the street points at me and lisps—now I know what they mean in books when they say children lisp. He wears a red and white striped t-shirt, addresses my friend who walks beside me. I ask people to please walk on my left side. It’s the eye that’s not completely dead I say. They always move over.
By Don ShareJuly kindles the redneck in me.
I blaze down Interstates
that are viaducts for my beery nerves
By Patricia Davisabout his sister how she
wanted
to be light
built night in her ribs
By David Tomas MartinezIt's not water to wine to swallow harm,
though many of us have,
and changing the name
By Venus ThrashDeep in the heart of the Garden of Eden,
past the Euphrates & Tigris riverbanks,
the marsh grass, reed beds, bulrushes,
By Eduardo C. CorralAre the knees & elbows
the first knots
the dead untie?
By Natalie DiazIn the Kashmir mountains,
my brother shot many men,
blew skulls from brown skins,