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Kateema Lee

Remembrance

By Kateema Lee She grew up hearing about girls
who never made it to womanhood, girls
whose names wore away with each decade
Juan J. Morales

Of Avocados

By Juan J. Morales Like two hands pressed
together, they are twice as large
on the island. One feeds
Hari Alluri

Clarification Card: The Spiral (“The cigarette is pretext: smoke rises from within”)

By Hari Alluri Unless you’re practiced as a lola’s wrinkles,
do not flip the lit side of the yosi in your mouth.
They developed this skill in war and carried it
Janlori Goldman

Ode to Jacob Blinder

By Janlori Goldman His face stared out into the living room
of my grandparents’ walk-up on E. 13th.
After they died my father hung him
Deborah A. Miranda

We

By Deborah A. Miranda The people you cannot treat as people

Whose backs bent over your fields, your kitchens, your cattle, your children

We whose hands harvested the food we planted and cultivated for your mouth, your belly.

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
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