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By Tiana Nobile
When you held him, how heavy was his head cradled in your lap? How long did you carry that
weight in your thighs?
By Sumita Chakraborty
We may try to change the shape of your body, or the color of your skin,
or the kinds of sounds that your mouths make, to match how we think you should.
By mónica teresa ortiz
I wake up sleepless inside a room overlooking giants//mist peeling over olive trees//clouds of pleasure
By Kateema Lee
She grew up hearing about girls
who never made it to womanhood, girls
whose names wore away with each decade
By Juan J. Morales
Like two hands pressed
together, they are twice as large
on the island. One feeds
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
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.
By Laura Tohe
By Kimberly Blaeser
Scientists say my brain and heart
are 73 percent water—
they underestimate me.
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