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Rosemary Ferreira

This is the city that I love

By Rosemary Ferreira Habichuelas bubbling on the stovetop. The kitchen door opens to our backyard. My father cuts out a piece of the campo and plants it here in Brooklyn. There are neighbors who knock on the door with a broom to let us know they’re selling pasteles. The train rumbles into a screech in the background, “This is Gates Avenue, the next stop is...”
Amy M. Alvarez

I keep lighting candles on my stoop and watching the wind snuff them out

By Amy M. Alvarez I keep thinking about Breonna Taylor asleep/ between fresh sheets/ I keeping thinking/ about her skin cooling after a shower/ about her hair wrapped in a satin bonnet/ I think about what she may have dreamed that night
Carmin Wong

The Proper Way to Prepare the U.S. Flag

By Carmin Wong Start with something simple: 13 loosely lingering light-hearted lines that eventually morph / into crowbars ★ corps ★ prison cells ★ bylines.
Kyle Dargan

Poem Resisting Arrest

By Kyle Dargan This poem is guilty. It assumed it retained
the right to ask its question after the page

came up flush against its face.
Maricielo Ampudia Gutiérrez

DREAMers Mark Themselves

By Maricielo Ampudia Gutiérrez With each finger, I pressed on black ink, and one by one placed them on the transmitting screen. Following instruction, I rolled each finger, left to right, and slow—every quarter inch of skin recorded. On the display, perfect fingerprints glowing.
Azia Armstead

Birthday Poem

By Azia Armstead We wait for the show to begin in an open field on a blazing summer night.
Fireworks are most lucent in the blackness of a sky with no sun which
makes me think of blackness as a metaphor, how colors shine brightest
when contrasted against it.
Daria-Ann Martineau

Again

By Daria-Ann Martineau I find myself noticing you again
eight years later,
you coming out of the earth, pale,
erect, shadow over men.
You can’t be buried.
Claudia Rojas

Residence

By Claudia Rojas (We) DMV centers will see and take less of us.
We
(are) We will not miss a day of work or school
Alexis Smithers

[Untitled]

By Alexis Smithers Standing in line, waiting to go into the Library of Congress
a black woman stands two people ahead of me and
a white security guard says to her,
It’s a beautiful day.
Emmy Pérez

excerpts from “Cajas/Boxes with Zero Tolerance”

By Emmy Pérez In 1930, my tatarabuela still spoke Rarámuri.
Detribalized now as we’ve been from Turtle Island,
south and north of the río grande, west and east
it’s no surprise that we’re still writing about
our identities, brown women regarded
as brown women, they’d say equally as if
a consolation for any.
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