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Opal Moore

Spring Mix, for Ahmaud

By Opal Moore A small bird built a secret nest
beneath my balcony. There must be
hatchlings there, out of view.
She flies back and forth, small prey
in her beak.

Some kind of wren, I think.
Small, brown and quick. No time for
singing midday. Duty
is her instinct.
Amatan Noor

After Hours at the Garment Factory

By Amatan Noor Let’s inhale some fresh air
Its botanical river wafting into our nostrils
Alas, the sky has been seething crimson
for half a century
Moncho Alvarado

Dear Hermano

By Moncho Alvarado Again people are being taken away,
I read the news of kids
like your daughter & son,
like our family, our neighbors,

they wake in a state of temporary,
that lasts longer & longer &
longer than we can remember.
Glenn Shaheen

Herring

By Glenn Shaheen Somebody suggested I buy pickled
Herring in wine sauce— it didn't sound
Like a bad idea, all these conversations
Mired in capital's sloughed-off flesh.
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.
Vickie Vértiz

‘70 Chevy El Camino

By Vickie Vértiz The men inside the Pep Boys wear blue work shirts. Fingerprints on the hems. That’s
how I’m going to be: my hands with grease that won’t wash off. Like Apá buying Freon.
Fenders. My sister sniffs the little trees, outlines the posing girls with her eyes. We buy
peanuts and their candy turns our palms to red
Ashna Ali

Social Distance Theory

By Ashna Ali On an assemblage of screens on another firework evening
Ruthie Gilmore reminds us that abolition is not recitation.
Hayan Charara

Apokaluptein

By Hayan Charara The Arab apocalypse began around the year
of my birth, give or take—
the human apocalypse,
a few thousand years earlier.
Siaara Freeman

The Such Thing As the Ridiculous Question –

By Siaara Freeman When I say ancestors, let’s be clear:
I mean slaves. I’m talkin’ Tennessee
cotton & Louisiana suga. I mean grave dirt.
Liv Mammone

On the Subway for the First Time

By Liv Mammone The train is a creature that moves like water.
It has no eyes, only a sharp
mouth that closes on those too slow.
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