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By emet ezell
i bought her a shitty ass chicken sandwich.
$18.59 and dripping with oil—
my grandmother. she blessed
the meal for ten minutes before
taking a bite. poured out devotion like
gasoline. like pepsi cola. we knew then
that she was dying, but i lived
in the first paragraph, unprepared.
By mónica teresa ortiz
I wake up sleepless inside a room overlooking giants//mist peeling over olive trees//clouds of pleasure
By Rio Cortez
Just as close to living as you are to disappearing knowing
my limits you locate the tender spots without.
By Ashna Ali
On an assemblage of screens on another firework evening
Ruthie Gilmore reminds us that abolition is not recitation.
By Erin Hoover
My child babies a squeeze bottle of craft glue
or a lipstick tube filched from my purse.
She yanks a tissue from our coffee table
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 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
By H. Melt
Whether it’s raining
or snowing, midnight or
you’re awaking from a nap,
working an eight hour shift
or watching reruns,
By Steven Leyva
a lobby shaped like a yawn, lined with lodestone
leftover from making the marquee. The congress
of picture shows and pulp flicks it seems
named this movie house, the Senator.