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By Jonathan B. Tucker
pardon our appearance
as we grow to better serve you
says the sign on the fence
By Purvi Shah
The mehndi is leaving my hands,
brown swirls dissolving into brown skin.
Somewhere you are traveling
By Venus Thrash
I am wearing a white tux with tails,
or a baby blue one with a ruffly shirt,
or decked out in classic black, or coolly
By Antoinette Brim
Let the moon untangle itself
from the clothesline, as coming daylight
diminishes its lamp to memory.
By Don Share
Greetings to the red-eyed clouds
from this, the house that sits
on the mound and faces the corner
By Rashida James-Saadiya
dodge words that rip into flesh
hide from clenched fist
By Sami Miranda
we is not the singular
dotted i, black figure against
a white background.
By Jericho Brown
Not the palm, not the pear tree
Switch, not the broomstick,
Nor the closet extension
Cord, not his braided belt, but God
By Lillian Allen
Silence rocks the night
nerve stretch tight
snapping left and right
By Allison Adelle Hedge Coke
America, I sing back. Sing back what sung you in.
Sing back the moment you cherished breath.
Sing you home into yourself and back to reaso