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Laura Tohe

My Body Holds Stones

By Laura Tohe My body
holds
stones
Kimberly Blaeser

The Where in My Belly

By Kimberly Blaeser Scientists say my brain and heart
are 73 percent water—
they underestimate me.
Lisbeth White

Hull

By Lisbeth White At the end of the field are tracks
train metal iron sound called whistle
to me a blare that splits air before it
Margo Tamez

Brecksville, Ohio

By Margo Tamez The weather in Brecksville was in transition.
He was wearing a light jacket. The seasonal
change of weather variations,
Yesenia Montilla

I Was Wrong Running Doesn’t Save Us

By Yesenia Montilla once at eight years old I nearly gave myself a concussion running
my mother would braid my hair and wrap the ends in the heaviest
hair ties with the biggest colorful glass balls; they were lethal; as
Leticia Hernández-Linares

Latido

By Leticia Hernández-Linares Tus pómulos, the historic shape of your
temporal bones imitating the pirámides we carry, beating
blueprints inside of our lungs, stencil the heart
with the angles of the architecture we were born in.
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.
Carmin Wong

The Proper Way to Prepare the U.S. Flag

By Carmin Wong Start with something simple: 13 loosely lingering light-hearted lines that eventually morph / into crowbars ★ corps ★ prison cells ★ bylines.
leilani portillo

believe me

By leilani portillo when i say
the land is my
ancestor
believe me.
Azia Armstead

Birthday Poem

By Azia Armstead We wait for the show to begin in an open field on a blazing summer night.
Fireworks are most lucent in the blackness of a sky with no sun which
makes me think of blackness as a metaphor, how colors shine brightest
when contrasted against it.
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