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Gisselle Yepes

I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO MOURN MEN WHO HAVE NOT TRIED TO KILL ME

By Gisselle Yepes And in twenty-five days, we make a year without
Tio Freddy alive, without his flesh inhaling
cigarettes or bud once filled with wind
like that winter after Wela died, the only winter
we got with him here, we walked
every time we linked
downstairs to smoke, to watch the trees
mirror our empty.
Karla Cordero

A Conversation With Siri About Death

By Karla Cordero i watch slasher movies but hate the sight of real blood leave the body

i panic on planes & think of ways the machine or sky

will betray me i read books in fear to evaporate

out of this world without seeing its soft hands
Rajiv Mohabir

Prayer

By Rajiv Mohabir I invite you back
dear wildness dear
unfathomable formless

Adela Najarro

Juanita Falls into Transformative Nouns

By Adela Najarro I have learned to speak dementia
by looking straight into her eyes
smiling, laughing, then digging deep
Eugenia Leigh

One Year After My Dying Father and I Stop Speaking to Each Other Again

By Eugenia Leigh Someone on the internet is mourning
her dad—that old goat—with a goldmine

of anecdotes. Scraps of fondness I scrape off
her tweet—his beef wellington, her frogs. I want
Joselia Rebekah Hughes

All The Kids With Rhythm Bang on Metal Locker Doors At Lunchtime

By Joselia Rebekah Hughes Black able rack able
hack able tack able
lack able slack able
Eli Clare

The Art of Disassociation

By Eli Clare drift
lose time
gain time
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,
Janice Lobo Sapigao

Bill Pay

By Janice Lobo Sapigao we don’t know how to pay the bills on time
and we don’t know the password to your bank account

& in all of our languages I understand why you stacked
linens and face towels and rubber bands and plastic bags

in drawers and hallway closets
everything filled to the brim
Tarik Dobbs

Skybridge Rendering Above Minneapolis & the West Bank

By Tarik Dobbs Chorus: Like a bridge over troubled water…
For years, settlers longingly, vertical, build over us, Starbucks has no sinks. Will we go? Lately, the bridge, their throne. When even these are somewhere to watch from, to drop a knee & propose somewhere to feel for a bank.
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