bitter crop
By Kelli Stevens Kaneblueberry blackberry as always
bleeding, back road or boulevard,
our boy crowned with baton,
Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Kelli Stevens Kaneblueberry blackberry as always
bleeding, back road or boulevard,
our boy crowned with baton,
By Jody BolzFirst, take away light.
Leave time—but make it dark,
disordered. Make it sleepless.
Not day, not night.
By Jennifer ChangThe daffodils can go fuck themselves.
I’m tired of their crowds, yellow rantings
about the spastic sun that shines and shines
and shines. How are they any different
By Linda HoganWe had been together so very long,
you willing to swim with me
just last month, myself merely small
By Danez SmithI am sick of writing this poem
but bring the boy. his new name
his same old body. ordinary, black
dead thing. bring him & we will mourn
By Ruth Irupé SanabriaI am the daughter of doves
That disappeared into dust
Hear my pulse whisper:
By Christi KramerKnowing the tribal leader loved people who fear God and received
priests graciously
whatever time they called,
the president had bombs sewn into the clothes of two priests.
By Sue D. BurtonToday it’s Hopkins and his obscure spiritual contraptions –
everything I read is heart-corseted, like a concealable vest,
police surplus good as new. Some fanatic is packing a gun.
By Genie AbramsC’mon c’mon c’mon. Let’s do this thing! “Two or three minutes,” my ass. It’s been five minutes already! Where are they? How long
are you supposed to hang out in this frickin’ waiting room?
By Devreaux BakerLast night my sister came to my table
Trailing stories from the other world
Trailing remnants of all our mother’s people
She spoke words that fell from her mouth