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Myra Sklarew

Exchange

By Myra Sklarew Myra Sklarew reads "Exchange" at the 2014 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
Julie Enszer

Zyklon B

By Julie Enszer The painters call before we move into the new house. Ma’am, they say—

I am not old enough to be a ma’am, but I don’t correct them—
Ma’am, they say, we smell gas.

I dismiss their concern. I say, Keep painting.

Abdul Ali

Amistad

By Abdul Ali My father and I run into each other at the edge of Lower Manhattan,
World Trade Center, where there’s a movie house.

We tiptoe down the slope, making our way to our seats.
Leona Sevick

White

By Leona Sevick Instead, I spotted our mother in a tiny
chair in the back row, her blue-black head
shining unnaturally. She was dressed in
Naomi Ayala

No. 13, for Remembering

By Naomi Ayala Two blocks away
where yellow cabs
zip by without stopping
Myra Sklarew

Infinite Regress of War

By Myra Sklarew In the mirror of infinite regress
go back. Go back to Vietnam. To a man
who can spot a trip wire fine as a hair,
Truth Thomas

Sunday Kind of Love

By Truth Thomas Shayna reads the Word and takes
the story of that first miracle as
serious as unpaid electric bills in
winter
Meg Eden

factory work: made in china.

By Meg Eden I look for a man's hand inside
the folds of my purse, and find
a pattern that recalls a finger print, the way
Joseph Ross

In a Summer of Snipers

By Joseph Ross In a summer of snipers
some men raised their hands
with fingers pressed
Kim Roberts

Portrait of Hippocrates, or Buqrat

By Kim Roberts O augury seeker,
know and be aware...
In the book of divination,
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